


Winter Has Come

by scriba_vindex



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, F/M, Jealous Jon Snow, Jealous Sansa Stark, Jon Snow is King in the North, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 69,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8772055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriba_vindex/pseuds/scriba_vindex
Summary: Jon and Sansa have reclaimed Winterfell and must now adjust to a new life in each other's company while preparing for the threats to come. As their feelings for each other complicate new challenges arise and old faces return... Read my take on how Jon x Sansa could happen in a detailed depiction of life after the Battle Of The Bastards.(Posted originally on fanfiction.net)





	1. The Gift and The Glance

**Author's Note:**

> This story is meant to be a continuation of the show: a sort of a speculation on the events post-season 6. It will be centred around Winterfell, particularly the Jon-Sansa relationship and its progression toward a real romance- something we haven't seen on Game Of Thrones in quite some time :p (RIP Robb, Talisa, Ygritte, etc.)
> 
> Sorry in advance for any inaccuracies regarding the books/show's facts...I have read and watched it all but mistakes are easily made in a setting as complicated as this. I'm trying my best though; my goal is to make the story gradual and believable. The evolution from a semi-incestuous relationship to a romantic one is not easy, and should make for interesting moments! I'm crossing my fingers for something like this story in Season 7, but am not overly optimistic, since this is Game Of Thrones,and it has a way of crushing one's dreams.
> 
> So please let me know if you like this...also if you have any theories, speculation, or hopes for Season 7, please let me know in the comments, I'd love to see what others are thinking after the awesomeness that was season 6!
> 
> One final note: As stated in the description, I posted this originally on fanfiction.net. To those who happen to frequent both sites I haven't stolen it or anything- it's mine (at least the premise- the characters belong to George R. R. Martin, of course) and is here because it was suggested that I cross-post on this site. So here it goes!

Sansa rode her silver mare through the Wolfswood, relishing the feel of the fading rays of feeble sunlight on her face. As late afternoon slipped into evening, the snow-blanketed forest already grew dark. _The daylight succumbs to night's shadow earlier with each passing sunrise._ Sansa reflected sadly. _Winter truly has come._

As if to deepen her unease, the forest around her trembled with the stirrings and rustles of wild animals. Though the coming of winter appeared to foreshadow death, the frozen Wolfswood seemed to be coming alive, as though strange winter creatures, dormant through the long summer, had decided to resurface. Sansa caught herself shivering at the thought, and subconsciously glanced rearward to Brienne, astride a sturdy brown charger, who looked resolute and undaunted as always.

Sansa was grateful for her protector's presence and unflappability, even if Brienne's insistence on accompanying her _everywhere_ grew a bit tiresome on some occasions. _I shouldn't complain._ Sansa insisted to herself forcefully. _I finally know freedom and safety._ she reflected, her throat tightening at the memories of her gruesome recent experiences. Indeed, Ramsay Bolton would never have trusted Sansa to stray from the castle, whereas Jon had begrudgingly agreed that she should be allowed outside should she wish, provided that Brienne would accompany her. There was no comparison, really, between Ramsay, who she had despised with every waking breath, and Jon, who she was grateful for with every act.

She had taken several rides beyond the walls of Winterfell since having reclaimed it in the battle a fortnight past. With each trek she noted the longer time required to warm up upon return, as though the temperature was dropping consistently. Nevertheless, she valued the time outdoors to collect her thoughts and not be bothered by any diplomatic matters, of which there had been an abundance as of late. Nearly every day she and Jon had received guests of some form in Winterfell's great hall; be them lords, smallfolk, or messengers, and every one had some grievance or proposal for the King In The North.

Sansa's thoughts were halted as she arrived at a fork in the trail: to the left the trees thickened and the path dipped deeper into the Wolfswood; to the right the trees thinned and the trail opened onto the moors which flanked Winterfell. She could see the turrets of the castle poking stoically over the rolling hills.

Brienne cleared her throat and trotted her horse up to Sansa's side. "I think it best we return, my lady. Your brother surely worries."

Sansa nodded and turned her horse to the right, but noted that Brienne had not referred to Jon as _his grace_ and smiled almost unintelligibly. _Jon would probably be pleased, he seems to detest formality._

She and Brienne exchanged few words as they rode toward the castle, for which Sansa was grateful. Her teeth were nearly chattering and her cheeks stung from the bracing northern wind. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and a dull greyness had settled over their surroundings.

Despite the sombre atmosphere, the land beneath Winterfell's walls was alive with commotion. The village outside Winterfell's walls- which was typically just a collection of small buildings- had swollen to a staggering size. The leftover wildlings already camped there from the battle had been joined within days by smallfolk from every corner of the north who had pitched tents, huts, and even well-constructed cabins in the shadow of the looming castle walls. People mingled everywhere; they traded, argued, and exchanged stories...it was much like a real village, but much less permanent. It was also still growing. New northerners continued to arrive steadily every day. Davos liked to call it the Winter Village. Several of the Northern Lords insisted that Jon should send the people away, but he insisted that they were harmless, perhaps made proud by the fact that they trusted him and sought his protection.

Sansa didn't know what to make of the bedraggled people outside Winterfell's gates, but they seemed fond of her- always stopping her to offer gifts or praise her beauty. Today she was invited to share in a family's feast on a wild turkey by a bearded man (which she politely refused), and offered a small sewn tapestry by an old woman. The elder shoved the drapery into her arms and would not let Sansa leave without it, so she thanked the woman hastily and buried it in her saddlebag without even having glanced at its contents. "So nice i' is, t' see Starks in Winterfell.." Sansa heard her mutter as she hobbled away.

Eventually Sansa and Brienne made it to the gates of the castle, and were hurriedly accepted inside before any stowaways from the Winter Village could creep past the guards. As she dismounted and handed her horse off to a stable boy, she noticed that Jon had appeared on the wooden landing that overlooked the courtyard. He smiled in his understated Jon-ish sort of way and swiftly descended the stairs to meet Sansa and her knight.

"I was starting to wonder." Jon mused, looking Sansa over, then placing a gentle hand on her cheek. "You're cold as ice and white as Ghost." he remarked, concerned but amused. Brienne shot Sansa an _I told you so_ kind of glance.

"I wanted to enjoy the sunlight before it disappears entirely." Sansa insisted with a small smile, shrugging Jon's arm away. "Apparently the lords aren't keeping you busy enough if you still find time to worry about me."

"I worry about you whenever we're not together." Jon muttered quickly, immediately looking somewhat taken aback, as though worrying he had overstepped. He recovered a moment later and seemed to want to change the subject- he appeared exasperated. "Anyways it's been more of the same. Talking alliances and feuds, arguing responsibilities, proposing matches. Come inside and get warm and fed. Perhaps in your company I won't murder the next lord who flings his daughter at me." Jon grumbled.

Sansa nodded and followed Jon, with Brienne closely in tow. She noted an unbidden sense of approval at Jon's reluctant attitude towards betrothal; she hated the idea of having to share him with someone else.

_I've finally found one of my kin; no one is going to take him from me. Not if I can help it._

A few moments later Sansa was seated at the high table in the Great Hall immediately to Jon's left, supping on a stew of beef and vegetables. Brienne took her supper at one of the tables below, and Jon was reading one of several letters, having hastily downed his own stew already. Sansa watched Jon's dark eyes skimming the tiny script and noted his severe expression and brow furrowed in concentration. He looked a real king, seated in father's old chair, draped in a Stark cloak and reading important letters.

"Walder Frey was murdered." Jon stated suddenly, his eyes never leaving the letter.

Sansa nearly choked on her stew in surprise; her chest tightened and she was overcome by a wave of...shock? Satisfaction? Relief? She wasn't sure, but Jon seemed to sense her uncertainty and cautiously took Sansa's hand under the table. Immediately she remembered to breathe and was able to resume thought.

"The gods have sought vengeance for our family at last." She said quietly, her voice nearly breaking. Jon glanced at her solemnly. "Apparently they don't know who did it." He noted, his eyes searching hers.

Sansa stiffened. "It doesn't matter. Dead is dead." She proclaimed firmly.

"Well, I say we drink to that." Davos muttered from his seat at one of the lower tables. "To the death of Walder Frey, and to vengeance for the House of Stark." he called grimly, causing the remaining occupants of the hall to raise their goblets in salute. Tormund looked confused, evidently not understanding the magnitude of the situation, but raised his tankard to his lips anyhow and drank deeply.

The silence was deafening, and Sansa felt her throat swell with emotion. _It should have been Robb and his wife in these seats, not Jon and I._ she reflected sadly. _But then where would I be right now?_ Just as quickly as she felt herself approaching her breaking point, Sansa steeled herself and regained composure, gripping Jon's hand firmly in her own.

"So what did the rest of the letters say?" Sansa asked quietly, ending the painfully drawn-out silence. "Anything of Bran or Arya?" The rest of the room's occupants resumed eating and chattering quietly.

Jon shook his head in disappointment, his face pensive. "This one's from Sam in Oldtown, saying he's begun studying at the Citadel." he said, looking dreadful.

"Isn't that good news?" Sansa quipped, trying to understand Jon's despair.

"He doesn't know that I'm….I'm…"

"King?" Sansa piped with raised eyebrows.

Jon nodded and extracted his hand from Sansa's. "Sam's still a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. He'll have to go back but I won't be there."

"Well he can always come visit…" Sansa suggested, trying desperately to provide some comfort.

Jon smiled a little despite himself. "That's not really how it works and you know it."

Davos seemed to sense a shift in their conversation and rose from his chair, evidently having something prudent to say.

"Sorry to interrupt, your grace, my lady." He muttered, nodding to Jon and Sansa, respectively. "But I couldn't help but overhear you discussing maesters, and it got me thinking that you really ought to have one here. In Winterfell."

"Seeing as I executed the Bolton maester, I suppose we could use one." Jon admitted, considering Davos' suggestion. He gestured for the knight to continue.

"I have been in communication with my nephew, as it be, who's forged the beginnings of his chain at the citadel. He hasn't much experience, but he's looking for work, and I reckon he could be here in a week's time, seeing as he's only in White Harbour. I'd be ever so grateful, your grace…"

"Alright, I suppose, at least until we can find someone more experienced." Jon agreed with a small sign, looking exhausted and slouching against his throne.

"Thank you, your grace. I'll send him a raven immediately." Davos exclaimed happily before shuffling quickly from the hall.

Sansa turned her attention back to Jon. "That was kind." she said gently. "We could easily have found a new maester ourselves."

"Well, an inexperienced one we can trust is better than a learned one whom we cannot." Jon said bitterly, evidently still brooding over his dilemma with Sam.

"So what did the other letter say?" Sansa prodded carefully, fixing her eyes on his and hoping for a change of subject.

"It was from Littlefinger. Very cryptic." Jon grumbled, passing the parchment to Sansa for her to read with her own eyes.

Sansa scanned Petyr's loopy, fiendish handwriting for a moment, then sighed. "A _celebration of the union of our houses?_ Makes it sound like a wedding- and I'm _not_ marrying him." she added quickly at Jon's disgusted reaction. He appeared to breathe a small sigh of relief. "I suppose it's a sort of dinner party, then."

"But he hasn't invited us to the Vale…" Sansa muttered, scanning the letter again.

Jon shook his head. "Even if he had, there's no way I'd let us go- I don't trust the man at all. I think this letter is his way of getting himself invited to Winterfell."

"Then we won't invite him." Sansa announced firmly, slamming the paper onto the table rather harder than she had intended to.

Jon perked up and looked a little surprised at her forcefulness. "We don't really have a choice, given how he aided us in our weakest moment." he mused, his eyes sweeping the great hall as if reflecting on just how much he owed Littlefinger.

Sansa shot him a sharp gaze, wondering if he was insinuating something and recalling their past arguments on this subject, but there was nothing but concern in Jon's eyes, so she softened.

"Then we do what we must, and we do it _carefully._ Littlefinger is dangerous." Sansa muttered, holding Jon's gaze for a moment, before rising from her chair. "I'm going to retire. Good night." she stated briskly, leaving Jon to ponder his political troubles. As she headed toward the doors of the hall Brienne made to follow her, but Sansa assured her that she was quite safe, and bid her goodnight as well.

Candle in hand, Sansa ascended toward her tower room. She was currently sleeping in her old chambers, while Jon dutifully inhabited the lord's chambers. It had taken nearly a week to convince him not to sleep in his tiny old room and to claim his rightful sleeping quarters (he was the King, after all) and still he asked Sansa every morning if she would prefer to take the suite instead. Though she rejected this offer obligatorily every time it was presented, in the deepest corner of her mind she wondered if they would do better to just stop pestering each other and share the room. _It's just a room, after all, and it would be nice not to sleep alone._ She would think quietly to herself. But then the dutiful opposing side of her brain would cry _but it is unbecoming of an unmarried woman to share a bed with a man, especially her brother._ And her thoughts would spin into deep turmoil.

On some nights- typically the colder and darker ones, Sansa found herself creeping back to her initial train of thought, and she had come so far one night as to nearly knock on Jon's door, but something always sent her crawling back to her cold, lonely chambers. So, dutiful as always, Sansa entered her room and lit her candles, trying not to feel scared or anxious. She immediately noted that the chill of her ride had returned once she had left the vicinity of the great hall's roaring fireplaces.

Hardly a moment had passed when Sansa jumped as a small knock sounded on her door.

"M'lady? I'm here for your soiled riding clothes." a familiar voice called.

"Come in, Eva." she responded, trying to hide the relief in her voice at having some company.

Sansa's new handmaiden stepped briskly inside. She was a lithe, strong girl, the bastard daughter of a more remote northern lord, who had offered to enter Stark service as a handmaiden after the battle, in exchange for safe lodging at Winterfell. Sansa had taken quite a liking to her, as she was pleasant to talk to and easy to trust- something Sansa had rarely felt after all of her experiences with Ramsay.

"You're shivering." Eva said matter-of-factly, noting Sansa's shaking arms. "Why don't I draw you up a bath?" she suggested helpfully.

Sansa was about to decline, recalling memories of her most recent wedding night, but changed her mind upon reflecting on her current state of cold. She doubted she'd be able to sleep without warming up.

"That would be...nice, Eva. Thank you." She said quietly.

A few moments later Sansa was lowering herself into her wooden washbasin, cloaked by the hordes of steam produced by the freshly-boiled water. She emitted an uncontrollable shiver as the water's heat warmed her body.

"Better?" Eva asked quietly.

"Very much." Sansa whispered with a shudder, reflecting on just how cold she had been.

Eva reached forward to wash her hair, but Sansa instinctively yanked it away from her handmaiden's grasp. "No-I'll do it myself." she retorted rather sharply, immediately feeling sorry for her brashness. "I'm sorry...it's just…"

"You don't have to explain." Eva said kindly. "I can't begin to imagine what sort of horrors you had to endure under the...care...of Ramsay Bolton."

Sansa gave her a weak, grateful smile and let her hair fall back against her shoulders, allowing Eva to wash it. She tried not to think about the horrible familiarity of the situation, and to just relax in the hot water.

"So, what of that Cerwyn lad who came calling today?" Eva suddenly chided cheekily as she slowly combed Sansa's hair.

"You mean the one whose head barely reaches my shoulders? Or was that the Hornwood man?" she pondered, smiling a little despite herself. "It's hard to remember which one is which."

"Agreed m'lady." Eva laughed, smiling playfully. "That Glenmore lordling from last week was pleasing to the eyes, though. We handmaidens remember him."

Sansa gave a mock groan. "His conversation capabilities were ghastly, he stuttered every second word."

"Mayhaps he was embarrassed; half these boys act like they've never seen a girl before, let alone a pretty one." Eva mused dramatically as she poured water over Sansa's hair.

"I wouldn't marry any of them anyway." Sansa muttered firmly. "They'll get the message eventually."

"If you'll forgive me for asking, do you want to marry anyone ever, m'lady?" Eva asked tentatively, squeezing the water from Sansa's auburn cord of hair.

"I don't know what I want anymore." She responded quietly, so that it was barely intelligible. "I may be forced to do so at some point or another, but I intend to have a say, this time; unlike my last two weddings." she grumbled with absolute disgust.

Eva smiled. "Well, until then, I must confess that the maids and I downstairs have a running tally of the suitors forced on yourself and His Grace."

"And who's winning?" Sansa wondered, amused at the servants' idea of a game and having not been keeping track herself whatsoever.

"You are, m'lady, as of the two lads who came calling this morning." Eva giggled. She had finished washing Sansa's hair and stood up. "If it pleases you, I'll go and fetch some warm towels from downstairs?"

"Certainly." Sansa said gently with a small nod, causing Eva to depart. As the handmaiden disappeared through the doorway, Sansa's thick wooden door did not close entirely, and, she noticed, hastened to swing back ajar. For an instant Sansa considered calling out to Eva, but decided against it. No one else frequented this tower except Brienne, seeing as the other bedrooms had belonged to Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa closed her eyes and reclined, sinking deeper into her bath and relishing a few extra moments of warmth. She lost herself in her thoughts and let the curling steam send her into a stupor.

"Sansa?" a male voice exclaimed suddenly- Sansa heard her door creak open.

Before she could react properly, she heard Jon's exclamation of surprise.

"San- my lady...I'm, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's alright, Jon." Sansa mused coolly, turning her head to regard him but remaining low in her tub. Initially, she didn't know how to feel about him discovering her in such an exposed manner, but then decided that she found his shock to be quite charming, and quite befitting of a man who had had few encounters with the opposite sex in recent years. Sansa caught herself feeling that she had rarely been treated in such a gentlemanly fashion as of late.

Jon looked away stoically, most of him hidden behind Sansa's door. "I just wanted...to let you know that Littlefinger, Lord Arryn, and his company will be visiting in a week's time. I've just sent the raven." he muttered, his voice lacking its usual depth.

"Thank you for telling me, Jon. Good night." Sansa managed to blurt out, the current situation entirely overshadowing his words.

"Good night, Sansa." He answered, withdrawing and closing her door with a thud. Sansa could have sworn she had felt his eyes dart upon her in a fleeting glance before his departure, and felt a strange stirring in her chest at the thought.


	2. The Whirling Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon contemplates. Sansa barters. A hunt is afoot.

Jon woke with the dawn; knives of sunlight pierced his curtained bed and roused him from oblivion before he could protest. As was the case every morning, he was momentarily confused and disoriented by the size and outfit of his sleeping chambers. As he always did immediately after this realization, he remembered that following recent events he was now taking his nightly rest in the Lord's Chambers of Winterfell.

_I've slept in this bed a fortnight, and still every morning I feel I shouldn't be here._ Jon thought strangely, as only a man elevated far beyond his expected position could.

Admittedly, Jon could scarcely believe that everything after his rebirth was real, and not a strange, strung-out dream. Had he really reunited with one of his kin? Had he really fought in a battle for Winterfell and emerged victorious? Had he really been named King In The North? It seemed too much good had happened for everything to be real; life simply did not work this way, especially for a bastard.

For a while Jon had wallowed in thoughts of indifference, wondering if he wanted to go on and continue to fight for the realms of men, which he had already left behind once before. Eventually, thanks in no small part to Sansa's presence, Jon had decided to continue- survival was, after all, the only way forward. A small part of Jon's thoughts secretly relished his recent accomplishments, filling him with pleasure at the thought of what his enemies would say of him now. All those who had ever sneered to his face or mocked him with contempt would surely tremble at where Ned Stark's bastard had landed himself; now Jon spent his days making pacts with great Northern Lords, fortifying Winterfell for war, and preparing the North for the coming of the Night King. Alliser Thorne would have fallen to pieces at the sight.

Another part of Jon's thoughts was plagued with guilt; he had not saved his brother Rickon, and he had stolen the Northern Throne (not entirely on purpose) from Sansa. He and Sansa had discussed the matter several times, and though she often insisted that the North would not rally behind a woman anyhow, Jon still felt he had taken advantage of the situation unintentionally. After Sansa's crucial role in the success of the Battle for Winterfell, Jon felt she would have been justified to ascend the throne herself. After all, she was more a Stark than Jon could ever hope to be...yet still he and the rest of the Northern men had succeeded in taking her due rights, just as so many other men had done before. Jon's heart constricted at the thought that he and the Northern Lords were no better than Joffrey, Littlefinger, or Ramsay Bolton.

_I will make it up to her. She will rule Winterfell one day, I can feel it._ Jon thought to himself. There was no use dwelling on the unfortunate matter, since things seemed to have reached a standstill anyhow. _Only when the dead come marching, and the North is turned upside down, will things be guaranteed to change…_ he thought darkly.

Jon's deep train of thought was halted suddenly as Ghost leapt onto his bed, nearly smothering him under his immense mass of snowy fur. The direwolf nuzzled him insistently, panting and pawing at his master in an effort to make him rise.

"I'm up, boy. You're fine." Jon mumbled grumpily, patting the wolf heartily and conceding that it was at last time to wake. Ghost perked up and leapt from the bed to sit resolutely by the door, evidently eager to get out and be fed. Jon supposed that if there was one thing that roused him each morn aside from Sansa, it was Ghost and his unyielding hunger. Since the direwolf insisted on sleeping under Jon's bed like a watchful sentinel each night, it was always Jon who fed him once dawn arrived. A stable boy, in an attempt to be helpful, had tried to give Ghost his breakfast once and had nearly had his arm torn off, which meant that no one had been willing (let alone eager) to feed him since. So the duty remained with Jon, as it always had at The Wall.

Jon generally rejected servant assistance of any sort, aside from the preparation of his meals (since he was a dreadful cook) since he was not accustomed to having everything done for him, even after his time as Lord Commander. He was perfectly happy dressing himself, fetching his own horse, and sharpening his own weapons. When servants did call on him, he often sent them to Sansa, hoping that they might aid her in some way instead.

This morning Jon dressed himself in his smallclothes, leathers, and cloaks and then proceeded to the Great Hall. As he was traversing Winterfell's stony torch-lit corridors, he remembered his encounter last night with Sansa and felt his face redden at the memory. He hadn't intended to corner her in such a compromised state. _As if our relationship needs more...tension._ Jon mused.

Tension was the only word he could procure which might describe the connection he felt to Sansa. From the moment they had been reunited at Castle Black a couple moons ago, Jon had experienced the unusual feeling every time they shared the same airspace, which was regularly given the nature of things. Their interactions were undoubtedly charged, but Jon assured himself that the sensation was merely his excitement at being around a fragment of his old family. Even if the Sansa of today was notably different than the Sansa of several years ago...

_I care about her, nothing more. I want to protect her, just as I would Arya or Bran. We separated as children and reunited as a man and woman grown, so of course things are different…_

Jon passed through the doors to the Great Hall and noted that the long benches were considerably more empty than usual. Davos and a collection of knights occupied some space on the left side, but the right was empty save for Tormund and a few of his wildling brethren. Sansa and Brienne were nowhere to be seen.

"What of Lady Sansa and Lady Brienne?" Jon queried of Tormund, taking a seat on his left.

"So you've decided to join us, King Crow!" the wildling exclaimed, digging his fork into a large sausage. "A good mornin' to you, too. The Lady and her larger Lady have been gone since sunrise. They went out 'ter the Winter Village, I'm thinkin'." he mumbled through a mouth full of sausage.

"I see," Jon replied with a haphazard smile. "And do I take this emptiness," he added, gesturing to the quiet hall, "to mean that the Lords have decided to pack up and return to their keeps?"

Tormund shrugged. "Aye, for the most part. A couple of 'em seem hesitant to make the trip back, but the largest of the bunch 'ave gone."

"I s'pose that's to be expected, what wit' that white raven telling 'em winter is 'ere." One of the other wildlings pitched in. "Don't s'pose I'd be here either, if I had anyplace else 'ter go."

"As long as they return when the real war begins." Jon proclaimed sullenly.

"Maybe this means we'll finally 'ave some peace an' quiet." The other wildling muttered.

_Until Littlefinger arrives._ Jon thought internally, already dreading the prospect. _Our troubles here never reach their end._

A servant girl presented him with a plate of food to break his fast upon before he could ponder the issue any further. The identities of the remaining Northern Lords were soon revealed to be Flint, Holt, and Forrester, when the three lords themselves appeared in the Hall a few moments later.

"If it suits your Grace, we feel it prudent to remain at Winterfell until we get a day's worth of sunshine to ease the trip home." Lord Flint appealed with a nod, mirrored on either side by Holt and Forrester.

Jon eyed them curiously, noting internally that the weather seemed favourable enough today, but granted them leave to remain as long as needed and invited them to break their fast in the Great Hall . Apparently satisfied with his answer, the three Lords accepted and took seats at the benches as well.

As Jon was about to resume conversation with Tormund, Lord Holt cleared his throat quite adamantly.

"Your grace, my men have sighted several deer in the wood by our camp, and wondered if you'd find interest in a hunt today, perhaps to bolster Winterfell's meat stores. You and your men would be welcome to join as well." He finished, nodding to Lords Forrester and Flint in turn.

"I have better things to do with my time." Jon murmured quietly, taking a sip from his flagon of juice.

"Better than stocking up on meat?" Lord Holt chided, eyebrows raised.

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but sensed that he didn't have much of a choice in the matter anyhow. "Alright." He conceded reluctantly. "You'll find I don't hunt like a lord, though. All my experience is with the Night's Watch."

Lord Holt waved his hand dismissively and gave a jovial laugh. "If your skills on the hunt are half that of your skills on the battlefield, we won't leave the glades empty-handed."

Apprehensively, Jon agreed to meet his Lords outside Winterfell's gates around midday. He knew there were many other tasks to be completed, but there was evidently some reason for him to be dragged hunting, and he wanted to learn what it was.

After Jon finished his meal, he headed outside to the courtyard, intending to ride into the village and find Sansa; he was craving the companionship of someone he wouldn't have to put on a false identity for.

However, the issue quickly became irrelevant, as Sansa and Brienne rode in through the gates as Jon was saddling his horse. He felt his spirits lift at the sight of her, unharmed and content.

"Jon! Were you heading out?" Sansa exclaimed as she noticed him by the stables.

Jon was relieved to notice that she didn't seem different whatsoever following their awkward encounter last night.

"No, I was hoping to find you, actually." He uttered with a hint of a smile. "What sent you out into the Village?"

Sansa dismounted her silver horse and came to Jon's side. "I wanted to find someone who gave me a gift yesterday." She answered, before rifling around in her saddle bag. She pulled out a small rolled-up piece of fabric and held it out.

Jon took it and let it unravel in his hands, quickly discovering that it was a small tapestry, neatly sewn in the Stark colours. It seemed to depict he and Sansa; there was a man and woman side by side, of equal height and each bearing the weight of a crown on his or her head. Direwolves were emblazoned on the figures' clothes and the woman had flaming red hair, which left little doubt as to who the intended subjects were. It was a detailed and flattering depiction- Jon was unsurprised that Sansa would want to thank the tapestry's creator. He supposed that she also liked that she and Jon were depicted as equals, and found that he didn't mind either...it seemed to portray the way things ought to be.

"It's very nice, Sansa." Jon replied truthfully, handing the fabric back to her.

Sansa smiled. "I'm glad you think so, because I've found the woman who gave it to me and offered to pay her to make me a bigger one."

Jon was a bit surprised, but not averse to the idea, so he nodded and decided not to object. It wasn't like it would go in the Great Hall or anything...

"I've also had an idea," Sansa added, "After riding around in the village for a while."

"What sort of idea?" Jon returned, wondering if he should be worried.

"There are lots of boys in the Village who seem old enough to wield a sword, and even some grown men, who aren't doing so right now, because they don't have weapons or training." Sansa proclaimed. Brienne stood soundless at her side. "I think we could train them, mayhaps have them man Winterfell."

"Seeing as we only have a handful of Stark men and some wildlings, I suppose that's a good idea." Jon said quickly, immediately warming to Sansa's suggestion.

"You think so?" Sansa retorted with a haughty, teasing smile.

Jon chuckled a little at her eagerness to help. "I'll send someone to canvas the Village for potential soldiers, and I'll train them myself."

"Yourself?" Sansa chided, unable to hide the shock in her voice.

"Yes, myself. As I would have at The Wall."

Sansa nodded. "Then we know they'll become great soldiers." she said decidedly, causing Jon's insides to warm pleasantly.

The rest of the morning proceeded uneventfully, but cheerfully nonetheless. Sansa helped Jon to sort through many old letters which had been received by her father. Jon arranged for the determination of a set of criteria to dictate which sort of Village citizens should be admitted inside the castle to train as soldiers. Sansa helped the cooks in the kitchens to organize their food stores and approved a set of meals for Littlefinger and Lord Arryn's visit. Jon oversaw Davos taking inventory of Winterfell's weapons stores. Lunchtime came and went, and soon Jon was heading out to Winterfell's courtyard, Ghost at his side and dressed to hunt, to find his horse.

He was surprised to find himself immediately ambushed from behind by Sansa, who was also dressed in warm riding clothes.

"I'm coming with you." She announced firmly as she strode up to walk beside him.

"Have you ever been on a hunt before?" Jon asked her coolly, raising his eyebrows. "It's not usually considered a place for a-"

"-Don't tell me it's no place for a woman, Jon. Wildling women hunt all the time, at least as Tormund tells it." Sansa lashed, cutting him off sharply. "I just fancy a ride, is all."

"Alright, but you'll stay close to me." He conceded, slightly anguished at her apparent stubbornness. Sansa looked pleased with herself.

Jon kept a careful eye on her as they rode off, and also paid close attention to the actions of the bannermen and wildlings nearby. Though no one had raised an audible protest at Sansa joining the hunt, he had perceived some distaste in the men's expressions. As the riders traversed the moor, aimed at the looming Wolfswood, Jon's horse fell into step beside that of Davos. Sansa's vivid hair was visible two riders ahead; she appeared to be in conversation with a wildling spearwife who was atop a shaggy grey mount.

Davos greeted Jon gladly, inclining his head. "Your Grace."

Jon nodded in response, his eyes not leaving Sansa. "Was I right to let her come?" he mused uncertainly.

"From my few interactions with Lady Sansa I gather that she seems a strong-willed woman, who would not have taken no for an answer." The Onion knight suggested tentatively.

"That she is." Jon agreed. He heard hoofbeats on his other side, and a moment later Tormund had rode up beside him.

The redheaded wildling sneered, his expression unimpressed. "Any time you want to get away from these dainty southern sun-beaters, just say the word and we can ride off in the other direction for a real hunt."

Davos gave a chuckle. "I can only imagine what you'd think of the true southron lords..."

"I say if I met one of 'em, I'd have his tongue out before he could utter enough words 'fer me to decide."

Jon listened contentedly, enjoying the easy company of his trusted friends. The hunt proceeded monotonously, with hardly a sniff of any beast for a long while. Ghost tracked the large group of hunters from a distance, occasionally disappearing into the bush after his own scents. Jon, his bannermen, and the free folk rode through the wide forest trail that he and the Stark children had frequented in their youth, sending outriders off regularly into the forest with the hounds in hopes of finding something to hunt. _If there is life to be found in this wood,_ Jon thought to himself, _there's no way we'll get anywhere near it with a group this size._

Sometimes an outrider would sound his horn, signalling that the crowd should give chase, but whatever creature had been sighted was always gone by the time the whole group had gotten moving. On the bright side, Sansa seemed to be enjoying herself, despite the lack of proper action. She conversed with nearly everyone, and brightened the mood of the men considerably. All those who had sneered at her presence initially had been entirely won over.

Eventually, Lord Holt found his way to Jon's side, under the pretense of lamenting the day's misfortune.

"Rotten luck we've had...rotten, I say. My men swear there've been a dozen beasts in this vicinity in the last week." He implored gruffly. Immediately his expression changed, as though undergoing a transition to the real matter he wished to discuss.

"Blessings to the Lady Stark- her presence sure cheers the men after many cold hours in the saddle with nothing to show for it. A good, northern woman, she is, and pleasing to the eyes." He declared beseechingly.

Jon felt indignified at Lord Holt's proclamations; a stirring protectiveness threatening to make an appearance. _Sansa's not here for you to gawk at._ He thought irritably. He was quite unprepared as Lord Holt shifted direction entirely.

"My daughter Lora has a similarly bright spirit- into a fine woman she's grown. Lovely blond hair and eyes blue as The Bite itself-" he drawled on, quickly losing Jon's attention.

Jon resisted the urge to laugh- he had known there was a reason behind this ridiculous hunt, and it was ludicrous that Lord Holt had devised the affair entirely for the purpose of cornering him and underhandedly proposing a match with his daughter- whom Jon remembered as being quite large and homely. He wasn't surprised, considering that a constant barrage of marriage propositions had become a regular feature of Jon's days as a newly crowned king. However, this particular offer was unusual in its highly planned nature. None of it did anything to change Jon's mind though; he didn't intend to marry for the sake of it. Only serious political gain, or perhaps powerful desire, could make him truly consider such commitment.

To Jon's blessed relief, Tormund and his keen eyes noticed his entrapment under Lord Holt's meandering proposition, and soon a proper diversion was incited. A bunch of the wildlings appeared to have caught sight of something down a ravine to Jon's left, (whether there was actually something there remained to be seen) and they immediately pummeled down the thickly treed slope in a frenzy, sending the rest of the bannermen into chaos. Jon made a rushed apology to Lord Holt and ducked away, cantering into the trees after the galloping free folk. He noted that Sansa and Davos followed his lead, and soon the rushing group had left the bannermen, and the proper trail, quite far behind.

Jon smiled at Tormund's quick wit- he had successfully split the group and extricated Jon, which meant that some real hunting might finally occur. He clung to his black stallion's mane and crept lower on its neck, ducking the snowy branches overhead and willing the animal to gallop faster. Jon felt a surge of adrenaline- the likes of which he had not experienced in some time- swell in his chest as he whipped through the Wolfswood, trees streaking by endlessly on either side.

He lost his sense of where the wildlings were around him as he moved through the forest- surely they galloped nearby, but perhaps their grey furs blended into the whirling wood. He was, however, conscious of Sansa on his left. Her flaming crimson hair cast a haunting silhouette against the pale white and grey of the snows, and her body was bent gracefully into a smooth arch over her horse's silver back. She smiled heartily, evidently relishing the chase, and looked so familiar at that instant that Jon nearly fell backwards off his horse as he made the connection.

In this moment she was so clearly Ygritte, yet she was something startling and new at the same time. Jon had never consciously noticed it; but then, he had never seen her gallop through a forest on a hunt before. Shocking though it was, the sight was also bewitching, and Jon caught himself mesmerized by the ring of her laughter and the freed appearance of her form.

As they entered a large clearing the horses slowed, and Jon was harshly wrenched back to the present. He tried to refocus, but couldn't release the image of Sansa's gallop from his mind. _She is so clearly a different girl than the one I left behind at Winterfell those many years ago..._ he rationalized internally, watching Sansa's breath cloud in the frigid air as she slowed her horse to a trot. Jon mentally urged his strange, confusing new perspective on Sansa to dissipate, and forcefully reminded himself that the direction of his current thoughts was entirely inappropriate. He was ashamed at himself for even contemplating traces of such an idea.

Once more, Jon willed himself to return to the present as Sansa turned to him, cheeks flushed and hair swept messily in all directions.

"It seems we've lost everyone." She called acquiescently, walking her horse nearer to Jon's.

Jon forced himself to meet her eyes and smiled despite himself at her obvious enjoyment. "Perhaps we outran them and left them all behind." He replied with a small smile, gathering his reins in his hands for something to do.

"And what of the animal Boreck supposedly sighted?" She added, glancing eagerly into the forest around the clearing.

Jon shrugged. "Nowhere to be seen."

As if on cue, he heard a sudden shudder in the bushes to his left, and was only allowed a moment of concern and curiosity before Ghost leapt into the clearing, blood smeared on his jaws.

"Scratch that, I think Ghost beat us to it." He announced with a laugh. Sansa regarded the wolf with apprehensiveness. She seemed to lose some of her pleasure at the idea of a massacred animal.

"Wait here, I'll go have a look." Jon said quickly, dismounting his horse and drawing his sword, just in case. Sansa nodded but seemed to be at a bit of a loss for words, and was quite content to remain behind.

He left her in the clearing and ducked into the forest, feeling slightly on edge at the unusual stillness. Snowflakes had started to drift down from the ashen sky above, and the atmosphere darkened considerably as soon as Jon was away from the light of the clearing. He heard the soft pad of Ghost's pawsteps behind him, and was immediately grateful for the company. He thought he heard the sound of the rest of the riders entering the clearing behind, but couldn't be sure, as the abundant evergreens in this part of the forest muffled noise well.

As the roots of a huge maple appeared underfoot, Jon was greeted by a sight which made his heart go cold. He had found the beast who had suffered at the teeth of his direwolf- a fox, by the look of it- but crunching on the carcass was an enormous brown bear, which bared its teeth and gave a guttural grunt as it acknowledged Jon's presence.

_Gods help me._ Jon thought hopelessly as the creature rose, filling the forest with its colossal bulk.

He immediately steeled himself and raised him sword, prepared to fight the animal, should it come to that.

_This isn't the day I die._ Jon told himself insistently, though he felt his assurance waning as the bear looked him over maliciously, its fur bristled with aggression.

Ghost growled and stood firmly by his side, his only ally in a fight he had not been expecting.


	3. The Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face comes home. Siblings talk. Sansa breaks the rules.

The bear's gleaming, orb-like eyes bore into Jon maliciously, its hunger and bloodlust overpowering to behold. Clearly this was a beast who had been unprepared for the onslaught of winter, having spent a glorious many years without feeling the sting of the cold. It was a mammoth creature, armed with formidable claws and strength ten times that of Jon's own.

Jon tried to recall all he had ever overheard of maester Luwin's lessons on wild animals, and didn't recall anything about bears being naturally aggressive, at least without cubs around…

_Winter makes fighters of us all, regardless of whether we are soldiers._ Jon thought deliriously, wondering if these would be his last thoughts before he joined the gods.

The bear lunged, aiming a heavy blow with its paw and baring its teeth savagely. Jon narrowly avoided the raking claws, leaping backwards and nearly lethally losing his footing. He swung his sword at the bear's trunk-like forelegs, but Longclaw barely grazed its thick brown fur. The bear advanced again and Jon thrust his sword forward threateningly, but the creature seemed undaunted by the sight of steel and batted it aside as a cat would a dangling toy.

Jon felt the handle slide from his grip and Longclaw was flung several strides away into the snow by the force of the bear's attack. Jon stumbled backwards into the snow, now utterly defenseless and exposed. Before him the bear rose, if possible, even higher, as though preparing for a final charge. Jon saw images flash before his eyes- his childhood at Winterfell, his training with the Night's Watch, his fight at hardhome, his bannermen as they declared him King in the North, and Sansa...Sansa's face swam before his eyes, lovely and comforting...he wanted to see her again…

As if the gods had heard his silent plea, the bear suddenly faltered, lurching slightly to the side. A thin blade had emerged from the centre of its chest, and the fur around it was staining scarlet.

The creature emitted a growl and swayed to the side, before falling with a thundering crash to the forest floor and sending the woods into silence.

In the place where the bear had stood rose the most unlikely figure imaginable. Jon watched as his sister Arya pulled Needle from the bear's back and regarded him silently, holding the dripping scarlet weapon. Her face seemed emotionless, almost spectral.

Jon could barely register what was happening, and wondered if he hadn't died and somehow met up with Arya in the afterlife. His chest felt ready to explode.

Suddenly, the spectral Arya's face softened, and she leapt over the bear's carcass and threw herself around Jon, dropping Needle and hugging him so tightly he could scarcely breathe.

He was unable to wipe the shock from his face, and stood frozen as Arya embraced him.

"Thanks for the sword, Jon." She mumbled into his chest, her voice muffled by the tightness of the hug.

Jon finally realized that he was, in fact, not dead, and held Arya tightly back, comprehension sending his spirits soaring.

"I...can't believe you're alive." He managed to utter eventually, taking Arya's face in his hands, and noticing that he didn't have to reach so far anymore to do so. "You've grown since I last saw you...not such a little girl anymore. Still not particularly tall, though." he teased.

Arya smiled at him deviously. "You'd better watch it; I've learned a thing or two, in my time away. I'll fight you later and prove it, if you like."

"I don't doubt it." Jon whispered, struggling to hold back tears and unable to believe his good fortune at having found another one of his kin, and in such circumstance.

"Thank you, by the way, for the bear." He added, gesturing to the brown mass lying in the snow.

"Don't mention it. I would've died a dozen times over, same as you nearly did just now, if it weren't for Needle." Arya muttered, sounding much older than Jon had ever heard her before.

"How did you find me?" Jon urged her curiously, regarding his little sister with amazement.

"I was headed for Winterfell, and decided to pass through the Wolfswood. It sounded like there were riders nearby, so I was trying to stay hidden, but then I saw you about to be murdered by a bear." She finished facetiously, raising an eyebrow.

"There's a hunt going on, is all. They were with me- no one dangerous." Jon reassured her.

She shot him a cold, pensive look. "I wasn't scared." she muttered quietly in answer to the insinuation. At that instant, years of pain and loneliness seemed to ebb from her brown eyes, and Jon felt dreadful at how alone she must have been in the years since her father's execution. What Arya had been up to, Jon could only guess. Right now he was eager simply to return her to Winterfell, where she would finally be safe. Perhaps then he could hear of all her adventures.

Remembering that the rest of his party was in the clearing a ways back, Jon realized that they should get moving. "Come. There's someone who needs to see you." He said firmly, offering Arya his hand. She retrieved her sword from the snow and obliged.

Side by side the two walked back to the clearing, relishing the reconnection of a friendship both had missed out on for what seemed like forever. Despite all that had changed, Jon was ecstatic that his relationship with Arya seemed essentially the same. She quickly returned to the old habits which she had pursued endlessly as a child: making Jon laugh, and teasing him relentlessly, even though they had only been reunited a few moments.

Soon the forest lightened, the branches thinned, and the pair stepped out into the clearing, which was now filled with many wildlings and members of the lords' parties. They seemed to be arguing among themselves, and for a long moment no one noticed Arya and Jon's arrival. Eventually, a harsh call of "who's that?" from Tormund caused a hush to descend on the group. Heads turned to face Jon- he then remembered that hardly anyone in the congregation would know who Arya was, let alone the magnitude of her return.

"That can't be Arya _Stark_?" a gruff voice sputtered, and Jon observed Lord Flint weaving his way through the horses and men to get a better look. He was one of the only men there who would have seen Arya before. The effect of his statement was immediate- heavy chattering ensued- but Jon didn't notice. He was scanning the crowd for Sansa, and saw that her silver horse was riderless and tethered off to the side. Panic rising in his chest, he looked for her more frantically, but his fears dissolved a heartbeat later as she emerged from the crowd, the men parting to let her pass.

Sansa's face was a mask of disbelief, her eyes wide as she regarded her sister. She only hesitated a moment before leaping forward to wrap her arms around Arya in a powerful embrace. Jon saw small sobs wrack her body; the sound of them echoed hollowly across the clearing. Arya had pressed her face into Sansa's shoulder, but on her exposed cheek Jon saw a single tear fall silently earthward. The wildlings and soldiers nearby seemed compelled to look yet obligated to offer privacy.

Jon knew that there was unspoken grief, apology, and relief in the sisters' reunion, and didn't want to disrupt it or try to understand. _The horrors they might've endured_...Jon reflected sadly, watching the girls hug each other tightly. ... _none of us have any idea what they've really been through._

* * *

The overwhelming emotion that Sansa had felt as she had hugged Arya was shame; how could she have treated her only sister so badly? Here was the only other person who would ever understand everything that had happened in King's Landing, and Sansa had treated her like an irritation, like something to be ashamed of. If only she could go back in time and will her old self to be good to Arya- to all her family members- since as Sansa had so brutally learned in recent years, life offered no guarantees that each moment spent in the company of loved ones wouldn't be the last.

She was also grateful that the gods had finally decided to do some good in returning Arya home. Sansa lightened at the thought that another of the empty rooms in her tower would now be occupied. _One more piece of our shattered family has been reattached._

And through exceedingly unusual circumstances, she thought it prudent to note. The story of Arya saving Jon from the bear would become something of a legend in the castle over the next couple of sunrises- how she had chanced upon the King in his direst need and plunged her sword into the villainous bear's heart, saving Jon's life and announcing her return to her fellow Starks with a miraculous bang. Sansa was sure that the singers in the Winter Village were already pedalling songs about it.

Sansa had been worried sick, of course, as Jon had disappeared into the forest, and had been completely surprised and unprepared for him to reemerge unharmed, with Arya in tow. She scarcely remembered the events of the succeeding few minutes, only that Jon had sent men to retrieve the fallen bear- the only successful kill of the hunt, and that she and Arya had talked the entire way back to Winterfell.

Never before that evening had Sansa spent so much time talking to Arya; or Jon, for that matter. The three of them had barricaded themselves inside the Lord's Chambers immediately upon returning to the castle, and then proceeded to spend most of the night- until all of the candles had melted down to stubs - taking to each other. Outside the door, Brienne had stood watch, mortified that Sansa had been out in the forest without her protection, and elated that Arya had returned. No one had questioned her decision to remain by the door, and no one had interrupted the unending discussion going on inside.

Within the chamber Jon and Sansa had listened, enthralled, as Arya recounted all of her experiences following the execution in King's Landing: travelling the kingsroad with Yoren of the Night's Watch, cup-bearing for Tywin Lannister, being on the run with The Hound, travelling across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, and training with the faceless men. Eventually, she had even admitted to slitting the throat of Walder Frey.

" _You_ killed the old bastard?" Jon had uttered in disbelief, immediately shooting Sansa an apologetic look. "And no one caught you?"

Arya had shaken her head haughtily, "I was much too quick for them." she declared, causing Jon to smile approvingly.

As soon as Sansa and Jon had finished badgering out every last detail of Arya's escapades, Arya had turned her attention to Jon and prompted him to launch into a storied, more detailed version of his time at the Wall than the rushed account he had told Sansa two weeks past.

Sansa had listened attentively, finding herself unexpectedly intrigued by the finer points of his adventures. Through listening she learned of the many difficult things he had faced- certainly equal to she and Arya's own past troubles- which had not been extensively explored in his last retelling. She had felt entirely at peace sitting by the blazing hearth, draped in an abundance of furs and listening to Jon's gentle, soothing voice.

Eventually, Arya had snapped Sansa out of her reverie by throwing her the torch, so to speak, of the storytelling. She had been caught unprepared, having completely forgotten that they would want to hear her own story after sharing theirs. Therefore it had taken Sansa a while to really get going; she had not been helped by the serious gazes that Arya and Jon insisted on fixing her with as she tried to speak. Jon's soft, dark eyes were nothing if not distracting.

Slowly Sansa had relayed all of her encounters since she and Arya had been separated, including all of the details which she hadn't yet told Jon- all of the forced marriages, the punishment, and the manipulation which she had endured. At some points in her story she had grown angry, or sad, but her listeners had done all they could to console her, their concern never waning.

When she had finished, the three had sat in silence for a while in the semi-darkness. Their fire had sputtered down to embers and the candles had nearly all flickered out. Eventually, Arya had broken the silence.

"D'you remember when we were little how the maids used to come and fix our fires in the middle of the nights, so that we never woke to darkness." She had uttered faintly, in barely a whisper.

"No." Jon murmured back truthfully, a faint smile visible on his lips through the shadows.

"You didn't get that?" Arya replied, sounding quite playfully offended.

Jon chuckled. "Why are you surprised?"

"Sansa? Do you remember?" Arya asked her suddenly.

She had nodded slowly. "I remember."

And from that instant of recollection had stemmed another long conversation, though much more pleasant in nature. The three had reminisced until they were too weary to speak, and then eventually drifted off to sleep on their pile of furs.

The following day had been spent catching Arya up on the runnings of Winterfell- which was quite a different enterprise from before. It had markedly more wildlings and notably fewer Stark soldiers inhabiting it now under Jon's rule. The wildlings weren't going anywhere, but the soldier situation was being slowly amended. Just this morning Jon had accepted his first group of soldiers- if they could yet be called that- into the castle's courtyard for training, which Arya had eagerly decided to participate in the administering of.

Sansa had checked in on the bedraggled group regularly throughout the morning, watching silently from the battlements as they learned the basics of fighting. Most of them were green boys or young farmers who were without fields to tend with the arrival of winter. However, a couple seemed decent fighters- perhaps hedge knights or ex-squires, and there was even a pair of women who had apparently refused to take no for an answer when Ser Davos had canvassed the Village.

Sansa had watched Arya fight the trainees with intrigue. She did, in fact, have quite a lot to show them, and bested all of them easily, even the more seasoned fighters. Jon also proved once more his competence as a fighter and a teacher. Sansa often caught her gaze lingering on his strong, athletic figure as he demonstrated motions and gave commands, always right in the thick of whatever was being taught.

At around her third check on the proceedings in the courtyard, she became quite engrossed in what Jon and Arya were demonstrating about dodging attacks, and quite lost track of time. The weather changed entirely around her, dropping several degrees and beginning to snow tenuously. The training below continued, and seeing as she had given Brienne the morning off to rest, Sansa wouldn't have moved from her vantage point if Eva hadn't come up to check on her.

The handmaiden stepped tentatively out onto the snowy battlements. "My lady? You've been out a while. These new soldiers must be quite something." she teased, making her way to Sansa's side and drawing her cloak tightly around her shoulders. "You must have noticed the changing skies? That's a furious storm brewing, all the men inside are suggesting." She muttered, casting a grim glance skyward.

Sansa seemed to become suddenly aware of her surroundings. "To be honest, I hadn't noticed." she admitted sheepishly.

Eva smiled in understanding and glanced down at the yard below. "His Grace is doing a marvelous job- these ones already have the look of men, despite having entered this morning as boys."

"Except for the girls, of course."

"That's true." Eva giggled. Sansa noticed the handmaiden's eyes following Jon fervently and experienced an unfamiliar hint of indignation. She decided that she felt a backhanded urge to distract Eva, as though Jon was hers alone to watch... _truly a ridiculous thought,_ she scolded herself.

"Would you want to learn to fight?" Sansa quipped quickly, uttering the first question that came to mind.

Eva looked back to Sansa, her eyes blessedly leaving the training. "I wouldn't say no, if I had the right teacher." she mused wishfully.

Sansa felt irritation budding in her chest, and decided to get back inside in the hopes of leaving behind her futile feelings.

Eva lingered a moment before following her. Sansa experienced sudden guilt, regretting her irritability toward Eva, who had done nothing wrong.

_Jon is pleasing to the eyes- Eva can't be the only maid ever to have gawked over him, and she certainly will not be the last. Besides, it isn't my place to have a say_ … she cautioned herself.

The pair reentered Winterfell's stone corridors and made their way down to the Great Hall. Sansa wound up working on some stitching at one of the long tables and Eva got to mending a dress. They were soon offered a midday meal by one of the servants- a plate of bear meat with a collection of vegetable preserves. The fresh meat was much more flavourful than the cured forms Sansa had grown used to, and she enjoyed it immensely.

They were later joined by Jon, Arya, and the soldiers-in-training, and the Hall grew loud and boisterous. Tormund, Davos, and Brienne had amalgamated into the fray as well, which made for rowdy discussion. It was as homey a scene as Sansa could have imagined- the group of them eating and drinking jubilantly, everyone in good spirits despite the looming threat of the undead.

Arya's fiery tongue made her quite popular among with everyone; she readily engaged all challengers in battles of wit, regaled them with her stories, and swore and cursed with the best of them.

_Hardly a proper lady._ Sansa thought, bemused. She noticed that the notion didn't bother her anymore. It was enough just to have her back home.

In contrast, Jon seemed to prefer to listen rather than to talk. The other men berated him with questions and propositions, which he answered readily, but otherwise he didn't seek to draw attention to himself as Arya did. It was an obvious reflection of his many years spent in the background. Sansa pondered the thought and returned to her stitching, every so often catching Jon's eye.

The happy spectacle was later interrupted by the arrival of a raven, when a servant boy brought the message to the Hall and placed it in Jon's hands. He unfurled the paper smoothly and read it, his face falling into a small scowl.

Sansa suspected that she knew who the raven was from. She stared at Jon inquisitively.

He locked his gaze on hers and obliged. "Lord Arryn is proposing a tourney at Winterfell for when he comes to visit." he stated sourly.

Sansa stiffened at her memory of the tourney in King's Landing, where she had first encountered Littlefinger. "What do you think he means by that? Now is hardly the time for lavish celebration." she said coldly.

"I gather that this is Littlefinger's doing, perhaps meant to show the strength of our houses, or to procure something…" He suggested carefully.

"Like what?" Arya muttered, eyes narrowed.

"Likely Sansa." Jon replied quietly, his eyes falling on her grimly.

Sansa felt the urge to laugh. "I won't do it- I won't marry Petyr or Robin, and there's no way for them to force me."

Davos looked grim, and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. "Seven pardons, my lady, but there might be ways, given southern tourney customs, for Littlefinger to force Jon's hand, so to speak."

"And why should we have to listen to southern customs?" Arya spat indignantly. "The North is different."

"Normally I would agree," Jon started, "but given our debt to house Arryn we aren't in a position to do much refusing."

"So Robin- or Littlefinger, rather- is forcing us to host him and to satisfy his every demand? Even if that demand is _me_?" Sansa hissed, her voice rising.

Jon gazed at her firmly. "I meant what I said. I won't let him touch you. We'll just have to find a way out, is all."

Davos nodded approvingly. "We can think of something; we have a week's time."

Sansa hoped by the gods that she would be able to avoid Littlefinger; the notion that she might have to leave Winterfell- to leave Jon and Arya- to go back with him was too horrid to stomach.

Hurriedly, Sansa excused herself and exited the Great Hall. She told Brienne not to follow her and made her way to the Godswood, praying that the gods might be of a mood to listen to her pleas.

She remained crouched by the Weirwood tree for a long while, praying and contemplating, until the snow was falling very thickly, building heavy drifts around her. The sky overhead had darkened to deep, slate grey, and a frigid, aggressive wind was stirring the branches overhead.

When Sansa finally retreated to Winterfell's interior, she was numb to the cold and her head was clear. Jon and Arya expressed concern at her long absence- night had fallen as she had sat alone in the Godswood- but Sansa assured them that she was fine, and sat beside they and the handful of others who had gathered by the Great Hall's roaring fireplace. They sipped ale and conversed quietly, Jon discussing matters of import with Davos and Tormund, and Arya doing ridiculous impressions of southron people she had encountered in the last few years.

As Arya was giving an excellent interpretation of Varys the Spider, several wooden shutters flew open, admitting bursts of ivory snow into the hall and exposing it to the glacial winds of the outdoors.

Davos leapt up to shut the windows, struggling slightly against the considerable gale, and looked exasperated as he regarded the others afterward. "I'll admit, this seems the first true winter storm I've seen, considering I've not spent much time in the North." he said with a shudder.

"This howler's nothing." Tormund laughed, sloshing ale down his front. "The storms beyond the wall make this one look like a spring shower."

Jon appeared to nod in agreement, smiling slightly. "Still, we haven't seen a winter storm of this magnitude at Winterfell in my memory, thanks to the long summer" he concluded.

"Lucky the three lords and their parties were off this morning- hopefully they've made it far enough away to avoid the worst of it." Brienne added with sympathy.

"This is only the beginning." Tormund muttered darkly. "Winter's just testing her breath."

"So winter's a she now?" Arya noted with a raised eyebrow, causing Sansa to laugh.

Tormund shrugged and raised his tankard to Arya with a sort of agreeing nod. "Seems that way."

The group continued to laugh and drink, Sansa limiting herself to one tankard in the hopes of preserving clear thought. Eventually some individuals trickled off to retire for the night, until only Sansa, Arya, Jon, Brienne, and Davos remained, smiling frequently and enjoying one another's company.

When finally Jon decided to turn in, everyone else followed his lead, and Sansa found herself making her way back up to her tower with Arya. She bid her sister a good night and shut her door, noting a sudden stillness and eerie quiet. The wind was whistling and groaning behind Sansa's shuttered window, and strange tappings and slammings echoed occasionally from other parts of the castle. Her candles seemed barely to cut through the pressing gloom, and it was with a fair helping of fear and apprehension that she finally stifled the lights and plunged her chambers into complete darkness, crawling shivering into her bed.

Sansa's thin nightclothes didn't seem to warm her effectively. She lay awake for a long while listening to the howlings of the storm raging outside and tossing about her bed. She found herself steadily on edge, her heart slamming into her throat with every unfamiliar noise. She also found herself longing for company of some sort...for the days when her direwolf had shared her bed, or for some other soul who might protect her from the chilling threat of the storm.

After some time she realized that, as usual, it was Jon that she wanted. He would protect her- he had said so himself. But she reprimanded herself for returning to the idea. It's not acceptable. Her conscience droned on, to Sansa's great annoyance. _Anyhow, I shouldn't bother him simply because I can't sleep…I'm not some scared little girl. It's just the wind._ She told herself repeatedly as still more time passed without a wink of rest.

Eventually, after one particularly large and unexplainable crash caused Sansa to bolt upright, trembling in fear, she gave in to her terror and slipped out from under her furs, pulling a cloak over her shoulders and leaving her chambers swiftly.

Sansa crept through the shadowy corridors, her mind wandering but her feet purposefully steering her toward the Lord's chambers. Sooner than expected she had arrived in front of the wooden doors to Jon's room, and was startled to see light flooding out from the cracks, suggesting that he was also awake.

With only a second's hesitation Sansa rapped on the door, holding her breath nervously.

A muffled and drowsy "come in" sounded from within, so she opened the door slowly.

Jon was sitting at father's desk, apparently having been poring over old documents by candlelight with Ghost curled up on the floor at his side. He was partially dressed for sleep, but appeared haggard, his dark hair unkempt, as though he had also tossed and turned for a while. He rose in surprise at the sight of the person who had come calling at such an hour.

"Sansa." He said softly, her name falling off his lips with a measured delicacy.

She opened her mouth to reply, unsure for a moment what to say. "I...I couldn't sleep." she appealed weakly, unsure how to proceed. "I don't want to be alone."

"You're not suggesting-"

Sansa interrupted him quickly. "-please, Jon, just for this one night." she pleaded. "You promised you would protect me." she added hurriedly, locking her gaze on his dark eyes.

Jon watched her, open-mouthed. He looked ready to make some excuse, but Sansa saw something else in his eyes- a sort of...temptation. After a drawn-out, pressing moment of silence, his expression softened and he gave a small nod. "Alright- just this once, and no one can see you leave in the morning."

Sansa smiled and glanced at him teasingly. "Not a soul."

Wordlessly she crawled over to his bed and lay down on one side, drawing up the sheets cozily.

Sansa watched Jon snuff out the candles and give Ghost a pat before lying down on the opposite side of the bed. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling of closeness of another person, and the feeling of protection which he provided. She fell asleep quickly to the rhythmic sound of his breathing, finally warm and completely oblivious to the turbulent weather outside.


	4. The True Storm Approaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa narrowly escape. Moral vows are broken. Jon volunteers as tribute.

Jon woke to find himself much warmer than usual. The sounds of the storm had faded, and the delicate golden glow of dawn was slowly illuminating his chambers. It was then that he noticed two things: first, that he had neglected to draw the curtains around his bed last night before going to bed, and second, that Sansa's body was pressed tightly against his own.

Jon felt his heartbeats quicken maddeningly at this second realization; she had curled into him somehow in the night, and he, completely unintentionally, had allowed it to happen, as though his body had taken advantage of his sleeping mind.

They were both still clothed, of course, but the situation was enticingly dangerous nonetheless. Sansa's head rested against Jon's chest, and her fingers were entwined in his shirt. He couldn't help but notice the delicate rise and fall of her chest, and the bewitching gleam of the dawn sunlight on her copper hair as she lay against him, still unaware of the tense situation.

_She's beautiful._ Jon thought helplessly, incapable of denying that fact despite his conscience screaming tirelessly at him to stop. Much as he knew he should stifle them, Jon experienced a wave of dangerous thoughts. He felt so at ease sharing his bed with Sansa, and it was so pleasant to feel the warmth of her body on his own…but he should never have allowed for something like this to happen. She had beguiled him into allowing this by means of the late hour and his exhaustion, and now, if someone were to walk in on them…

_Imagine what Robb would think, or father_...Jon thought disturbingly, willing himself to act sensibly.

Just as he was contemplating how to extract himself, Sansa stirred, and her eyes fluttered open. For a heartbeat Jon found their gazes locked, his eyes fixed on her steely blue ones, before she sat up, appearing confused and glancing back at the distant, empty opposite side of the bed where she had initially fallen asleep. Jon felt his heart hammer in his chest.

"Good morning Jon." She yawned. Though she was blushing a little, she was acting surprisingly underwhelmed by having woken up pressed against him.

"Morning." Jon muttered quietly.

Suddenly a knock sounded at his door and he and Sansa froze, unsure what to do.

"Jon? Can I have a word, if you're awake?" called Arya's voice from beyond the door, muffled by the heavy oak.

Sansa looked to Jon frantically but quickly made her own decision. She slid back under the blankets and whispered "cover me" hastily to Jon, who piled a collection of furs over her before calling in answer what he hoped was a convincing "come in."

Arya stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. She opened her mouth to speak, but her expression quickly shifted to confusion, and she regarded Jon curiously. "Why do you look shocked? Like you've just walked in on a naked girl or something?" she prodded.

"No reason." Jon retorted quickly, willing his voice to sound normal. _She knows me too well_...he mused to himself.

"Alright, then." She replied, looking unconvinced. Her face turned serious as she sat down at Jon's side, apparently not concerned about the rather large pile of furs on the other side. "Well...I was wondering-" she began, watching Jon fixedly, "-if you'd let me leave for a few days."

"Why do you want to leave? You've only just gotten back?!" he answered abashedly, truthfully curious and less concerned about his immediate problem of concealing Sansa.

"I've been talking to the men that we're training, and several have sworn there's a direwolf leading a rogue pack in the riverlands."

Comprehension must have dawned on Jon's face, for Arya continued. "I think it could be-"

"-Nymeria." Jon finished quietly, truly startled by the possibility. He heard Ghost stir beneath his bed, as though awakened by the mere mention of the name. Last Jon had heard, Arya's direwolf had gone missing in an altercation involving the Lannisters years ago…

Arya was nodding, the yearning for her lost wolf clearly visible in her eyes. Jon felt a pang of sympathy. He had always taken Ghost's presence for granted. His half-siblings had not been so lucky. Still, he was quite disturbed by the idea of sending Arya back out into obscurity, even if only for a few days.

"You can't go alone." Jon stated firmly. "Maybe in a while, once this mess with Littlefinger has been sorted out, I'll go with you and we can search for Nymeria together. But you're not to go out by yourself."

Arya looked ready to object, but, thankfully, she conceded.

"Promise you won't go out alone?" Jon pressed quickly.

"Promise." Arya muttered, sounding somewhat deflated. "You have to promise that we'll go though."

Jon nodded, gazing at her sincerely. "I promise."

Suddenly he remembered that Sansa was buried, surely suffocatingly, under dozens of blankets, and he stood up in an effort to urge Arya out the door. "I'll meet you in the courtyard for training soon...just let me get out of my nightclothes."

"Alright." Arya answered with a small laugh. "Don't take too long, though, or the men will start thinking you're getting styling tips from Sansa for that hair of yours."

Jon laughed in a bemused sort of way and eased her out the door, shutting it behind her and exhaling a sharp sigh of relief.

"You can come out now." He groaned to Sansa, who emerged, laughing, from under the sheets.

"That was close." Jon murmured, putting his head in his hands exasperatedly.

Sansa looked devious as she smiled at him. "That was hilarious, was what that was."

Despite how anxious he had just been, Jon was pleased to see her so happy…

"You'd better sneak out, before someone else comes around."

Sansa grabbed her cloak and made to leave, but paused, her face becoming serious, to regard Jon. "I think that was the first night since father died that I truly slept, without nightmares. Thank you for letting me stay."

Jon gazed at her sadly. "We can't do it again."

"I know." she echoed softly, remorse etched on her face. She lingered a moment, simply looking into Jon's eyes, before stepping out of the room. Jon was left standing at the entrance to his chambers, his thoughts more muddied than ever before.

* * *

Though Sansa and Jon had both agreed that their night together would stand alone as a one-time occurrence, it somehow did not end up remaining that way. Sansa ended up spending two of the next five nights in Jon's chambers.

Two nights after the initial offense she awoke, shaken and sweaty, from a dreadful nightmare, and staggered to his room in tears; Jon found he couldn't bear to turn her away, and comforted her until she fell asleep in his arms. When morning arrived she slipped away before the sun had even poked over the treetops, and no one was the wiser.

Two more nights passed in which Sansa remained in her designated room, but on the night before the arrival of Littlefinger and House Arryn, excessive drinking occurred in the Great Hall in preparation for the onslaught of politics. Senses dulled following the consumption of several large drinks, Sansa found her usual thoughts compromised, and deliriously departed from her bedchamber as soon as the castle was silent. She walked the now familiar path to the lord's chambers and slipped mutely inside. Jon was already inanimate on his bed, his chest rising and falling neatly in the gloom. She lay down at his side and fell asleep instantly, her mind blissfully blank.

When Sansa woke in the morning, Jon was awake and strapping on his leathers by his wardrobe. He looked over as he heard her stir, and she shot him a conciliatory glance. They exchanged no words, but a sort of agreement seemed to have been reached.

They both knew that what they were up to, whatever it was, would be frowned upon if discovered. _Brothers and sisters of our age do not share beds._ Sansa thought numbly. But then, she wasn't sure that that was exactly what her relationship with Jon was. _It's not like we're lovers- we aren't Lannisters!_ She told herself. _We're just lonely without one another._

No one seemed to suspect a thing- even Arya was oblivious- so the arrangement would continue. Every other night or so Sansa would slip away to Jon's room, spend the night warm and comfortable, and then depart with the dawn in order to minimize the risks involved.

That particular morning was heavily charged with the impending arrival of House Arryn and the running of Prince Robin's Tourney. Sansa returned to her room and opened her shutters a smidgen in order to let in some light and gauge the weather for the day. The morning had dawned crisp and clear, and it was the sunniest it had been since the winter storm. It was hardly warm, but truthfully the elements could have been much tougher, and weather they had been given was as fair as they could have hoped for.

Sansa cast her gaze out into the distance, where on the moor Stark men were assembling some lacklustre bleachers for the day's jousts. Jon had insisted that everything should be kept as simple as possible, and that nothing would be done to excess. This northern tourney would be kept small and sensible, unlike those which were hosted in the South. Prince Robin would be wasting as few Stark resources as possible.

On that note Sansa remembered Davos' warning from their discussion five sunrises ago, that Littlefinger might have ways of _procuring_ her from the tourney like a prize, and shuddered at the thought. She prayed that he and Jon had made good on their promise and found her a way out. All she could do now was hope, and make herself presentable for the day ahead.

As if on cue Eva came knocking, eager to help Sansa dress splendidly for the visitors from the Vale. Together they picked out an exquisite silver gown which she had been gifted by one of her abundant suitors. Eva laced the back of the dress tightly with practiced hands, then brushed out Sansa's hair until it shone like brass. When asked how she would like to style it, Sansa requested a simple braid, like the kind her mother had frequently worn.

As she took in her reflection after Eva's work was done, Sansa couldn't decide if dressing finely again made her feel empowered or hollow inside. She decided not to dwell on it, and made her way downstairs to find Jon. He was easy to locate; the sound of tense chatter was drifting out from the solar beside the great hall, and his rang clearly in the jumble of voices. Sansa walked inside and saw that Jon was deep in discussion with Davos, Tormund, and Brienne. She was alarmed to see that they were fussing over Brienne, whose right hand was wrapped in a bloody bandage.

"What happened?" Sansa exclaimed worriedly, causing the others to look her way as she rushed over to take Brienne's hand.

The Lady knight appeared quite embarrassed. "It's nothing to worry yourself with, my lady. I've just cut my hand in practice."

"Practice for what?"

"For Prince Arryn's tourney, my lady."

Sansa could hardly hide the shock on her face, and looked to Jon for confirmation. He wouldn't meet her eyes and leaned forward, his face in his hands.

Davos sensed his king's angst and took over, looking Sansa straight in the eye. "As you know, we're worried that when Prince Robin arrives with his sizeable party he will name you the prize of his tournament, so that the victorious competitor will get the honour of bestowing upon you the traditional title of _queen of love and beauty_ , as it be. Since it's his tourney he can give the terms."

"His tourney my ass." Sansa heard Tormund mutter in the background, regarding the scene half-heartedly with a tankard in his hand.

She ignored him and nodded, her face grim. "I know how it works- I've seen southern tournaments firsthand. But the title is just for show, isn't it? If that's all he can do we have nothing to worry about." she declared, mostly for her own reassurance. "He won't be on the field, anyhow. He can't fight worth half a penny."

"No, he won't be on the field, but you can bet that Littlefinger, who we must remember is acting Lord of The Vale, will have a worthy knight representing him as champion, and should that knight win, Jon will be expected to offer him a prize for his victory."

Davos continued solemnly. "Since House Stark hasn't got spare gold and titles to bestow, it would be expected of him to offer the hand of the woman named _queen_ , which would be you. Not to do so would be exceptionally dangerous, as it would be a snub to House Arryn, whose forces are currently much greater than our own."

"I still don't see where Littlefinger factors into all this." Sansa mused irritably.

Davos went on patiently, "The winning Arryn knight would be pledged to offer his prize to his sworn Lord before claiming it as his own, and seeing as that is currently Littlefinger…"

The pieces finally clicked into place in Sansa's mind, and she found herself faint at the thought. _Thanks to an old bunch of rules, Littlefinger could claim me for his wife today without anyone objecting._

She noticed that Jon was watching her intently, his face etched with deep lines of concern. "But we aren't going to let that happen." he said, finally choosing to speak. "Just as there's an easy way for Littlefinger to win, there's an easy way for him to lose. We must win our own tournament."

Sansa stared back at him, wide-eyed at the simplicity of the solution, before turning her attention to Brienne. "Is that why you were training, Brienne? To fight for me?" she said quietly. Her protector nodded, not meeting her eyes.

"I was going to fight for you, my lady. I have some experience in the jousts."

"But her lance hand's ruined." Davos added candidly. "Prodigious though Lady Brienne's skills may be, she can't fight wrong-handed."

"So what do we do?" Sansa uttered anxiously, her gaze darting around to each of their faces.

"I'm going to fight for you." Jon said simply, his eyes meeting hers fiercely, protectively.

Davos looked uncomfortable and conflicted. "I urged him that we could find someone else to do it, my lady, someone very capable- not that His Grace isn't, of course- but there's surely another with more experience in the jousts, and whose health isn't so valuable-"

Jon cut him off briskly. "-but no one will try harder than I to win, and as I told you already there's no one else I'd feel comfortable entrusting with Sansa's safety." he stated coldly, fixing Davos with an icy, definitive stare.

Sansa hated the idea that he would have to place himself in harm's way for her- she had seen previously how tourneys could be extremely hazardous to those involved- but then, it couldn't be more dangerous than fighting in the fray to reclaim Winterfell...and she knew that Jon would go to his grave protecting her…

"It's decided- I won't be dissuaded." Jon said firmly, rising from his chair and turning his attention to Brienne. "Now , if no one objects, Lady Brienne will instruct me on how to win the tourney in the yard. We don't have much time." he finished definitively, leaving the room immediately.

Sansa bounded quickly after him and stopped him by the arm a few paces outside the door. "Jon...are you sure about this? Do you even know how to use a lance?"

"Not well." He admitted unabashedly. But I'm going to learn."

"House Arryn will be here soon-"

Jon stopped her sharply. "-I know that. That's why I should be in the yard with Brienne."

Sansa stared back at him, deeply uncertain. "I'm scared for you."

"It's just a tournament. I've survived much worse."His gaze softening as he observed the fear that was engraved in her face.

Jon took her hands resolutely in his own. "I'm going to win, and you won't be going anywhere. I won't let Littlefinger touch you."

She gazed back at him and gave a small nod, trying to abandon her lingering doubts.

As soon as he had disappeared around the corner, closely followed by Brienne, Arya poked her head out from the great hall.

"What's all this about? I thought I heard shouting from the solar earlier."

Sansa frowned. "Jon's going to fight in the tourney to protect me from Littlefinger."

Arya smiled and looked at her, confused. "Why are you frowning like mother, then? That's very valiant of him." She laughed, her face contorting into a playful grin. "Plus he'll solve all of our problems by winning."

"But are we sure he can win? It can be so dangerous, jousting…" she added nervously.

"I think you're forgetting that he's the king. Most of the knights probably won't even try to hit him." Arya chuckled, apparently still seeing good in the situation.

Sansa looked at her gravely. "You don't know Littlefinger. He'll have instructed his knights not to hold back."

Her sister still shrugged. "I still think Jon can do it. He's fought off white walkers, mammoths, and giants. What's a little joust?"

Sansa tried to still the anxious beast that was pacing in her chest, while Arya appeared as confident as ever. She seemed to hold Jon in some sort of elevated hero status.

The two Starks entered the Great Hall together a moment later and Sansa was brought a small plate of food on which to break her fast. She hardly touched it though, for all her worrying.

It seemed a very short while before a messenger entered the Hall, breathless and bearing grim news.

"The banners of House Arryn have been spotted on the horizon, m'lady."

Sansa nodded feebly and clenched her shaking hands. _The true storm approaches._ She thought dizzyingly.


	5. Heroes Don't Exist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guests are received. Sansa spends the day on edge. Jon jousts.

Jon tried haphazardly to tidy himself for the Lords of the Vales' arrival. His face was spattered with mud from his brief training session in the courtyard, and his riding clothes were worn and filthy. He washed his face with a cloth and changed into more ceremonial attire- the cloak and leathers that Sansa had made him- before putting his messy riding leathers aside for later. He paused a moment at the mirror, staring at the Stark sigil which was emblazoned on his garb.

_There was a time I would've given anything to wear something like this._ Jon thought hollowly. _Though not in these circumstances._

He was struck once more by the strange realization that, as of Rickon's death, he was the last man alive with Stark blood. With the exception of Bran, if he was still living; though Jon doubted that his brother would ever father children anyhow, therefore he would play no role in the continuation of the Stark blood.

Somehow the duties befitting the male head of House Stark had fallen to Jon- the one who had always had the smallest claim on anything, and he felt utterly and completely lost at the prospect. He never knew which course of action should be taken; he never knew the proper thing to say. He felt as though he was surviving his new duties only by leaning heavily on the assistance of others. All that he was certain of was that he had to protect his remaining family, and today that meant winning the tourney for Sansa. So he forced himself to focus on that fact, and that fact only.

Jon made his way hastily down to the courtyard, where they were to receive the most significant of their visitors. Namely Littlefinger, Prince Robin, the most prominent lords and ladies of The Vale, and their most prestigious knights and vassals.

Sansa and Arya had been waiting for Jon to return downstairs, and anxiously dragged him outside just as the gates were opening. In a mismatched line they stood- Arya, Sansa, Jon, and their small party of greeters. Jon had opted for Davos, Tormund, and Brienne to be at his side.

He reflected for a moment, as the gates were drawing upward, that this moment mirrored closely one of many years ago, when his father, Lady Catelyn, and his half-siblings had lined up to receive King Robert and the Lannisters. That day had marked the beginning of the great divide of their family. Jon hoped that today's ceremony would incur conspicuously different results.

Jon glanced over at Sansa and Arya. The latter appeared authoritative but contained, wearing a snug and simple brown dress with no ornamentation. Likely Sansa had tried to convince her to dress more elegantly, but she had refused and consented only to wear the simplest dress in her wardrobe, which was undersized and several years old.

Sansa, on the other hand, would be sure to turn heads throughout the day in her striking silver gown. Jon knew little to nothing of such things, but she appeared to have chosen expertly- the dress fit her magnificently and its silver hue brought attention to her astonishing blue eyes. In sharp contrast, her hair shone a bright, fiery red, and was tucked into a graceful braid reminiscent of the one Lady Catelyn had always worn. Round her shoulders was a splendid wolf pelt and a grey Stark cloak, declaring her identity for all to see. Jon felt a warm fondness rise in his chest as he looked at her, gleaming radiantly in the winter sun.

_As if I needed more reminding of why I must win…_

When Jon returned his attention to the scene in front of him, he saw that the guests had assembled in the courtyard, centred around a sky-blue litter drawn by a pair of dappled grey horses. The door swung open, and a familiar, loathsome face emerged first, followed by a boy of around fifteen.

_Near Bran's age._ Jon thought blankly.

The prince of the Vale looked around imperiously, not abundantly impressed by his surroundings. Eventually he spotted Sansa, and strode over to her purposefully, his pinched face breaking into a wide, devilish grin. "Dear cousin Sansa. How are you?" he crooned, grabbing her hand and planting on it a sustained kiss, causing her to grimace.

"I am well, my lord." she murmured with disgust.

Littlefinger regarded the exchange from a distance, his expression unreadable. Eventually he too strode forward to greet his hosts.

"King Snow- a pleasure it 'tis, to see you once more, and fully recovered after the battle." He murmured with a nod, smiling cunningly.

"And you, Lord Baelish." Jon muttered flatly. It was sure to get confusing- Littlefinger and Robin both being lords in the same house. Such strange adjustments of titles occurred in the wake of war and death, as had been the case following Lysa Arryn's demise...

Littlefinger scanned the rest of the party, his eyes quickly falling on Sansa. "My lady, as always, you grow more radiant each time I behold you."

Jon was pleased to see that Sansa did not react, and merely glared at Littlefinger with contempt, as she had every right to do. He had, after all, arranged her marriage to Ramsay Bolton. Jon experienced a fresh wave of fury of his own as he took in Lord Baelish's words.

"And this couldn't be...Arya?" Littlefinger implored suddenly, his eyes finding the youngest of the Starks.

Arya raised her chin, staring him stoically in the eye. "That's right. Arya Stark."

"How happy you must feel, to be home at last." Littlefinger chided, his thoughtful expression slightly displeased, as though Arya's presence was not something he a had anticipated or desired. Curiosity was distinctly discernible on his face.

"Did you have a pleasant journey?" Sansa suddenly added, staring at the visitors coldly.

"No." Prince Robin stated quickly. "It was much too long." he complained, his expression sour.

"Sorry to hear that." Sansa muttered, free of sympathy.

The awkwardness of the situation was palpable, and it was to Jon's great relief that Sansa invited the visitors inside to warm up and prepare for the afternoon's tourney.

_Now I truly begin the day's trek across a minefield of politics and diplomacy._ Jon thought disgruntledly.

* * *

Sansa had rarely felt so bitter toward guests as she did today with the arrival of House Arryn. Littlefinger seemed to track her every move, such that anytime she chanced a look at him he was staring back, to her great discomfort. Robin was much more up front with his clingy presence, but was equally bothersome; he regularly appeared at Sansa's side and assailed her with aggravating, shallow conversation.

The knights of the Vale whom Sansa talked to were charming enough, and spoke vastly fewer words than their liege lords, who were rather garrulous. The only guests whom Sansa truly enjoyed the company of were the ladies; it had been so long since she had enjoyed the company of other high-born women, and though some were rather gossipy and vain, Sansa listened to them happily. _I suppose I've grown rather weary of being constantly surrounded by men._ She mused prudently.

After a lunchtime meal had been served, the matters of true import began. Davos made rounds of the Great Hall, taking down the names of those competing in the tournament. When Littlefinger caught sight of the list, Sansa saw him tap Ser Davos on the shoulder and clear his throat.

"Is this not the list of competitors?" He said quietly, his words barely discernible by Sansa's ears. "I see the king's name inscribed there, in the middle. Perhaps a mistake?"

Davos shook his head, and Sansa saw the corners of his mouth curve into a barely detectable smile. "There's no mistake, my lord. King Jon intends to ride this afternoon."

At that Littlefinger's mouth opened, but no words came out. He stared after Davos as the knight walked on to another lord. His mouth twitched and he scowled, quickly engaging one of his knights in hushed conversation.

Sansa was pleased to see him caught off guard- that made twice today that he had been left in the dark- but she knew that he would only be more dangerous now. _Men who feel they've been slighted are unpredictable at the best of times._ She noted darkly. _Jon had better have his wits about him._

Eventually the preparations were determined complete, and Sansa noted that all of the competitors had slipped from the Hall, including Jon. Her heart constricted at the nearness of the main event, and she uttered a quick prayer to the gods to see him through the impending danger.

Sansa located Arya, and together they made their way out of the castle to the temporary tourney grounds. The weather had remained clear and pleasant, though their breaths were still visible in the frigid air, and a solid layer of snow still blanketed the moor. On one side of the stretch where the jousters would soon be clashing a tented shelter with a good view of the proceedings had been erected. Inside was a collection of comfortable seats and a large brazier, in which a crackling fire burned.

Sansa and Arya were quickly ushered inside, and seated in two of the larger chairs. Littlefinger and Robin occupied two more on Sansa's left, and several other lords and ladies of import claimed the remaining spots. Sansa observed several other familiar faces- notably those of the lords and ladies of houses Royce and Waynwood. She felt exceedingly uncomfortable stuck amidst so many southern companions, and being so close to Littlefinger and Robin.

Directly opposite from the tent stood the bleachers, which were crammed to bursting with smallfolk from the Winter Village and lesser inhabitants of The Vale. The atmosphere was deafening and boisterous, and not altogether unlike that of the tourney Sansa had attended in King's Landing, though the temperature was significantly lower and the profile of competing knights entirely different.

Sansa and Arya found themselves craning for a glimpse of Jon, though he was nowhere to be seen. Davos, Brienne, and Tormund must have been in his company, for they were missing as well.

A hush in the crowd brought to their attention a lone figure standing in the muddied snows, clutching a blowing roll of parchment.

"Lords, ladies, fair maidens and sers!" The small man bellowed, his breath visible in the frosty wind. Sansa noted that he was not a man she recognized- he looked to be from The Vale, and had likely been provided by Littlefinger. "Today the 'ouse of Stark celebrates its ties with the noble 'ouses of The Vale, including the most esteemed 'ouse of Arryn! Let this day be remembered as Lord Robin's tourney! Let those who ride before us represent their houses nobly and chivalrously! By the grace of the old gods and the new!"

Some members of the crowd echoed the last sentence facetiously. The speaker bowed and drew the murmuring crowd's attention Lord Robin himself, who had risen to regard his audience. _He may be scrawny, entitled, and impotent, but he does thrive on attention, and suffers little fear of crowds._ Sansa thought dubiously. _Though he's hardly a fraction of the brave, selfless man that Jon is._

"Greetings all," Robin called out loftily, scanning the hodge-podge crowd with demeaning eyes. "Welcome to my tournament, in which the knights of the North will meet the gallant knights of The Vale in the tourney tilts." he proclaimed with a fraudulent smile, his words well-rehearsed and likely penned by Littlefinger. Robin was merely a puppet being maneuvered by more cunning hands. The boy Lord turned to address the sizeable gathering of competitors, who stood a ways off, holding their horses at the ready. Sansa still saw no sign of Jon. There appeared to be few northern participants at all, for that matter.

"Fight today for the honour of your houses, for the respect of your superiors, and for the attentions of our lovely hostess, the fair Lady Sansa." He chided fluidly, his demonic eyes finding Sansa's. She felt her skin burn with embarrassment and loathing as he named her the commodity of the tournament.

As a child she would have ached for the opportunity to be the coveted prize of a tourney, as all the fair maidens in the songs were, but now she felt only fear at what the consequences of the situation could Sansa of old had resided in a fairytale of her own imagining, dreaming of a prince or hero who might come and sweep her south, away from the dull homeliness of the North. _But princes are monsters, and heroes don't exist._ Her present self thought dully. _All that can be hoped for in this world is to one day be free from pain and suffering._

Sansa realized with a start- in reaction to a sharp prod from Arya- that the tourney was beginning. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that the first two knights were already assembled at either end of the stretch, a long and flimsy wooden barrier all that separated them.

The first two competitors were of houses Royce and Manderly, and the Royce knight of The Vale won handily, knocking his opponent from the saddle on the first go-by.

Very quickly Sansa found her attention drifting; she hardly knew any of the competing knights, especially the southron ones, and generally the northern participants were defeated easily. They had been right not to entrust her safety to chance, since there was little northern talent to be had. The North had never boasted an abundance of great tourney knights- jousting was a markedly southern pastime- and the stores of competitors were greatly depleted following the recent wars. Sansa noted with a small start that Jon truly was her only hope; she prayed that he had somehow been able to master the use of a lance in one morning of training...

After a number of rounds, one Arryn knight had emerged the favourite. He was noble in appearance astride a white horse and in shining armour, but his tendencies were aggressive. One of his opponents had been dragged, bleeding, off the field with a lance-tip having been driven straight through his arm. After that the snow under the horses' hooves was noticably peppered with crimson, lending the scene a very gruesome appearance.

Perhaps a dozen rounds in came Jon's first tilt. Sansa and Arya bolted upright as they spotted him preparing to line up. The audience around became noticeably more engaged than in the previous match-ups once they realized that the King In The North was setting up to joust.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, appearing transformed from his usual appearance into a very passable tourney knight. He was astride a substantial black destrier, a sturdier animal than the majority of the knights rode. He carried a grey lance and a shield which had been hastily painted with the Stark sigil. His armour was dark and observably more conglomerated than that of the others, as though he had pieced together a collection of separate parts.

It was unusual to see Jon helmeted and armoured; Sansa was sure that he detested it. He typically preferred to fight with his head in the open, the better to gauge his surroundings, as she had learned from watching him train. Today his face and hair were stifled under a heavy jousting helm, surely to his great disgust.

Jon's opponent was a knight of a lesser house of The Vale who appeared tall and gangly atop his flighty brown horse.

Sansa could hear Tormund shouting profanity against the opposing knight from his position behind Jon's sashaying horse. She saw Brienne at Jon's side, conversing with him rapidly and gesturing to the field ahead. At her own side Sansa saw that Arya was perched on the brink of her seat, visibly engaged and excited.

She tried to share Arya's enthusiasm, but found she could not stifle the pool of dread that had settled in her gut. She watched with heavy anxiety as Jon's horse lined up at the beginning of the stretch, and he raised his lance and shield.

In an instant Jon and the opposing knight had taken off, their horses ripping at the snowy ground underfoot, their spear-like lances hardly wavering in the wintry air. For a few long seconds they galloped toward each other, the impending impact sending the crowd into a pregnant silence.

Sansa realized with a lurch that, as Arya had suggested might happen, Jon's opposition appeared to back off, his lance flying sideways where it was sure to miss cleanly. To his credit, despite the easy target Jon did not waver, and his lance struck true, sending the knight careening backwards off his horse.

Jon galloped through the remaining stretch before pulling up his horse. His lance was unbroken, and his status had allowed him an easy victory, at least for this round. The spectators offered half-hearted applause, evidently hoping for a more exciting match-up, but Sansa didn't bother to contain her pleasure at Jon's easy victory. She smiled openly and clapped for him, trying to catch his eye so she might convey some of her relief and gratitude. Arya cheered loudly beside her, garnering cold glances from the bitter surrounding lords and ladies. The rest of the occupants of their tent seemed less than pleased, especially Littlefinger, who looked as though someone close to him had just died. Sansa caught herself revelling in their displeasure; _let them see what we Starks think of southern meddling…this tourney wasn't even our idea._

The match-ups continued, and the results were more of the same. The Northern knights were easily defeated, the white-horsed knight continued to win handily, and Jon got through another two jousts unscathed. For the most part his opponents seemed eager to surrender or allow him victory, though in his fourth encounter he was not so lucky.

Jon lined up once more, this time to face a rugged knight with no sworn allegiance. They rode past each other several times, each attempt missing or seeing their tips deflected off each other's armour. Eventually Jon managed to suitably unseat his rival such that he conceded, but Sansa grew worried at the notion that they were narrowing to a pool of serious fighters, in which Jon would no longer enjoy his status advantage.

The sun's hazy position in the sky indicated that they had long since passed midday, and the lengthening shadows on the ground announced that late afternoon was upon them as the final match-up arrived. Miraculously, Jon had limped his way through the qualifying rounds, eliminating challengers until the only knight remaining to be faced was the loathsome, aggressive, white-horsed one. Their match would determine the victor of the tourney. Robin looked pleased at such an entrancing final battle, but Littlefinger looked more sullen than ever. He was down to his last knight in his bid to steal Sansa…

Meanwhile Sansa herself grew ever more anxious, longing for the tourney to end, and for Jon to defeat the Arryn knight so that her safety would be assured. She felt sick with apprehension at the importance of the moment. Jon had proven a fair jouster, though he had nearly no experience and was by no means free of the abundant risks involved.

The announcer returned to the field, looking jubilantly at the restless crowd. "Witness our final match-up of the tourney, in which a lone, victorious competitor must be crowned! On our left, ser Mordis represents House Arryn!" he called shrilly, pointing at the rival knight, who was greeted with enthusiastic applause. "And on our right, The King In The North rides for House Stark." he uttered flamboyantly, sending the Northern members of the audience into a frenzy. They seemed excited simply to have someone to cheer for, as it would have been easy to assume an Arryn on Arryn match-up for the final following the earlier stages of the competition.

Jon was conversing once more with Brienne, and was ushered into halting the exchange at the anguished calls of the announcer, telling him to mount up for the final tilts.

Wordlessly Sansa rose from her chair and stood at the front of the tent for a better view. Arya followed her lead, the two of them surely blocking the views of the highborn visitors behind them. Sansa found that she did not care in the slightest. _It's my future that depends on this tilt, not theirs._

She chanced a quick glance at Lord Baelish, and he smirked back at her smugly, almost in challenge. Sansa felt her blood boil and her head pound in irritation at his confidant visage.

_Please, Jon,_ Sansa thought solemnly, _don't let him win._


	6. Remember Your Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A timely arrival occurs. Sansa and Arya keep watch. Sansa ponders the past and the future.

Jon held his eager horse at bay, gripping the reins firmly as he prepared to charge. The frenzy around him went unnoticed, eclipsed by his fervent focus. He registered only the feel of the lance in his hand and the pulsating of his heart against his ribcage. A hint of movement in the distance told him that his opponent had kicked off, so he did the same, spurring his horse forward.

Through his narrowed slit of vision Jon pinpointed his target. He let his horse do the running, absorbing the motion and remaining fixated on his attack. The tip of his lance was aimed for the Arryn knight's heart, steadfast in its accuracy. Jon found, as was the case in his distant memories of jousting with Robb and Theon, that his arm was reliable, provided he could find a target. Seeing through the cumbersome jousting helm was the trouble, and had been all afternoon.

Jon's lance nearly hit its target perfectly, save for a slight skid to the right, brought about by the fact that Ser Mordis had landed his weapon on Jon's breastplate simultaneously. Both lances slid sideways, losing their potency and hardly shifting their victims in the saddle. Jon rode out the stretch, cursing under his breath. He needed a perfect hit, elsewise he was unlikely to unseat his opponent, which was necessary to win. There would be no concession from the stone-faced Arryn knight.

They rode at each other once more, and both missed their targets completely, their lances grappling at thin air. The spectators still cheered eagerly, the respective sides jeering heartily at the opposition. Jon glanced in Sansa and Arya's direction before he could stop himself, and saw the pair of them standing alertly at the railing. He felt enheartened at the sight of them, but ill as he remembered the stakes of the game they were playing.

He lined up again, and felt Brienne tap his arm an instant before he was about to take off.

"Look left shoulder but keep aiming right. It's all you might do to throw him off. " she suggested quickly, her brow creased in anxiety. Jon nodded to demonstrate his understanding. He was jolted into action a heartbeat too soon as Ser Mordis moved forward in the distance. He caught himself still considering Brienne's suggestion as his horse leapt onward. It was only when he was halfway to meeting his opponent that he properly raised his head to regard his rival.

With a rush of panic Jon realized that he couldn't find his target. His tiny field of view was a blur as he tried to orient himself. He turned his head on a leftward angle and tried to align his lance slightly to the right, in a last effort to heed Brienne's advice, but had only a moment to do so before he suffered a terrible impact to his midriff.

With a deafening thud and a blinding pain all of Jon's breath was expelled from his body, and it took his entire strength not to let himself be thrown rearward from his horse. He did not register anything save the agony of his crushed ribs for several seconds. He couldn't even cry out for the pain. He felt suffocated by his enormous helm, so he slid it off his head and heard it fall to the ground.

Arms were reaching and trying to pull him from the saddle, but he refused with a grunt of pain.

"No...I can't...surrender." He managed to utter, to great protest from the horde of people who were engulfing him.

He made out Davos' voice amidst a flurry of others. "Your grace, you need a maester-you can't go on!"

"I must." he groaned, clutching his severely smarting side. The pain had morphed from an unbearable roar to a searing ache. He drew breath laboriously, and didn't stop to ask questions as Brienne thrust a vial of cloudy white liquid towards him. He took the vial- likely a draught of milk of the poppy- and downed it in one swallow.

Brienne watched Jon, her face solemn as she clutched his dirty helm. She tried to offer it to him, but he refused adamantly.

"I need my eyes clear." he proclaimed quickly.

"Your grace, riding helmless is hardly advisable, you'd be very exposed-"

"-But I'll be able to aim." Jon finished quickly, his expression firm. "I'm going to finish this."

Brienne and Davos looked desperate to object, but Jon turned his horse away from them, wincing at his throbbing, damaged side. The pain already wasn't so intolerable as moments ago, evidently being numbed by the milk of the poppy. Jon felt his attention drift dangerously in his draught-induced stupor, and forced himself to direct all of his thoughts to the current moment. _One ride, one hit._ He instructed himself.

Jon hardly noticed the riled crowd's excitement at his return. He hardly registered their surprise at his lack of helmet. He stared through his rival's helm and into his eyes, conveying what he hoped was resolute refusal to yield. _For Sansa._ He thought to himself as he raised his lance and shield with trembling arms.

Null was the pain; there was only the immediate moment as Jon charged for Ser Mordis, his eyes acutely trained on the knight's silver breastplate. He was able to adjust his stance as much as his smarting ribs would allow in order to present a slim target, and though he was exceedingly plagued by pain, he felt more in control than in any previous tilt.

Jon's lance hit the Arryn knight decidedly, his weapon striking his enemy powerfully and centrally. Ser Mordis crumpled backwards, careening from his horse and meeting the blemished snow below with a crash. His lance had missed Jon entirely.

Jon exhaled sharply as soon as his horse halted, scarcely able to believe the result. He initially mistook his light-headedness for euphoria, but as he stumbled from his horse and tried to take his feet, he experienced a faintness that was more likely attributed to his earlier abdominal blow.

He rooted his feet to the ground desperately, seeking something to anchor his dizziness and return him to balance. A second later he spotted Sansa pushing her way through the crowds towards him. He thought he saw Arya in tow, but she was not tall enough to be clearly visible. Jon fixed his eyes on her face, which was flushed with relief and worry.

She bowled into him earnestly, wrapping her arms round his midsection tightly and causing him to gasp with pain. He couldn't speak through the agony, which doubled as Arya joined in; the pair of them squeezing him relentlessly.

Davos sensed Jon's pain-induced discomfort and cleared his throat. "My ladies, his ribs…" he uttered briskly, looking embarrassed but dutiful.

"Oh...sorry, Jon!" Sansa exclaimed, releasing him at once. She was smiling with great restraint, unable to contain her happiness.

"S'alright." he moaned quietly, grimacing at his aching side.

Arya looked jubilant as she beamed at him. "Nice riding, and good call to lose the helmet."

Sansa shot Arya a furious glance, before turning back to Jon, eyes frightened. "I thought that knight would go for your neck." she said weakly. "It was terrifying to watch."

Suddenly Brienne appeared at Jon's shoulder, looking purposeful. "Pardons, your grace, but I urge you to take the knee and bestow your favour on lady Sansa."

"That's hardly necessary-" Sansa started, but Brienne shot her a firm look.

"It is necessary, else the results may not stand formally." She muttered quickly, glancing sideways at Lord Baelish and Robin, who stood a ways back, observing. "And many must bear witness. Formalities are crucial in an event such as this"

Arya noticed that Jon was swaying slightly, and took his arm to help lower him to the ground, where took his knee, looking strained. Sansa's eyes remained fixed on his, her expression gentle and concerned.

Jon tried to remain upright, resisting the overwhelming urge to slouch over in pain, and willing his mind to remain clear.

"I...Jon of House Stark...do present myself as victor," he uttered taxingly, his breaths shallow. "In this, Lord Robin's Tourney...to the fair...Lady Sansa." he added, his voice increasingly laboured, but still clear and sonorous.

"I name her...queen of love and beauty...by the witness of gods...and men." he finished shakily, drawing from within his leathers a small cloth embroidered with the Stark sigil, which Brienne had provided him at the start of the tourney. He held it out slowly, and Sansa took it with a steady hand. She turned it over in her fingers a moment, appearing thoughtful. Jon was able to form the pensive thought, _that little scrap of cloth signifies her narrow escape from a grim future._

Sansa seemed to suddenly remember Jon's poor condition, and became eager to finish with the formalities. "Thank you for your courageous ride today, and for your service to your house." She recited quickly, speaking increasingly rapidly as she observed Jon's whitening visage. "Light of the seven and the blessings of the old gods go with you." she finished expeditiously. She looked to Brienne for approval, and the knight nodded. As soon as she knew that the ceremony was complete, she rushed forwards to help Jon up.

Jon stood dazedly, the edges of his vision darkening and his eyes unfocused. He no longer registered the agony of his mangled ribs. He was aware only of Arya's arm guiding him forward, and Sansa's glacial, cerulean eyes locked on his face. Her lips moved, and she seemed to be speaking, but he didn't comprehend the sounds she made. Her words echoed hollowly in his ears.

"I don't think he's hearing us!" Arya wailed, her hands grasping Jon's arm desperately in an attempt to rouse him.

"He needs a maester; we must get back to Winterfell!" Sansa was crying out, her arms helping to keep him upright.

"Have you given him milk of the poppy?" An unfamiliar voice exclaimed, having appeared at the party's side.

Brienne nodded. "Before his last tilt."

The new arrival shook his head. "Then at least he likely won't be feeling his wounds, though we will have a harder time keeping him awake, which would be beneficial."

"Excuse me, but who are you?" Sansa lashed, her voice sharp and accusing.

"I am a maester. I can help." The stranger said simply, calm in the face of the current predicament.

Davos and Tormund had also found their way to the group's side. Ser Davos was staring at the stranger, open-mouthed. "Gods be good, your timing is immaculate." he uttered, his eyes not leaving the maester. "This is maester Jervin, my nephew."

The group's startled reaction went unnoticed by Jon, who was sinking deeper and deeper toward dangerous oblivion.

* * *

Davos and Tormund lay Jon down in his bed. Sansa watched helplessly, her heart constricting in her chest, as he didn't react; his eyes were barely open anyhow. Wordlessly, Arya appeared at her side and took her hand.

"It's my fault." Sansa whispered darkly, such that only Arya could hear. "If I hadn't needed saving he never would have rode in the tourney."

Arya shook her head. "You can't think that way. He wants to protect us; he never would have been able to sit and watch you get stolen away without doing something." She declared. "Anyways there's a maester here now- Jon will be fine." she added quickly, though her eyes flashed with uncertainty, and her voice was not so steady as usual.

The young maester Jervin was ushering everyone out of Jon's chambers save Arya, Sansa, and Davos. Brienne stood solemnly outside the door, as though there was someone to guard the room from. The remaining occupants gathered around the bed, unsure what to do next.

Maester Jervin had stripped Jon of his armour and leathers, such that he only donned cloth dayclothes. The maester was muttering to himself incomprehensibly. He was about to tear open Jon's shirt, but then paused to glance at Sansa and Arya. They nodded for him to continue- decency was no longer of great import- so he proceeded with a resounding rip.

Sansa could not contain a large gasp of horror as the state of Jon's midriff was exposed. An enormous sheet of heavy bruising, deep purple and red in colour, had spread beneath the left side of his torso. It was a much more potent form of bruising than Sansa had ever seen, and was nasty to behold. _Thank the gods he's barely conscious, for the pain must be unbearable._ She thought miserably.

"It is as I suspected." Maester Jervin said quietly. "Aside from several cracked ribs, he is bleeding under his skin."

Sansa stiffened even more at the horrid visualization the maester had provided. "What can you do about it?" she asked weakly, scared at what the answer might be.

The maester looked surprisingly calm, and reached for his chain, which was not particularly long. He gestured to a pale white link. "I have studied the inner workings of the human body quite extensively. My abilities are limited without the tools and supplies I was trained with in Oldtown, but if you bring me everything you have in the way of herbs and remedies, I will work with what is provided." he stated firmly.

Arya nodded, looking relieved to have something to do. "I'll run down to the stores and see what's left of maester Luwin's supplies."

Master Jervin nodded approvingly. "Bring a bit of everything." he declared, before turning to Davos. "I need you to fetch me a pail of water, warm as you can make it."

"Of course, maester." Davos murmured, whisking out of the room purposefully.

That left Sansa alone with Jon and the young maester. She sat silently down on the bed, and took Jon's pale hand in her own.

"I want you to tell me the truth, maester-"

"Jervin." The young man answered.

"Maester Jervin." Sansa acknowledged with a small nod. "Will he survive?" she whispered hoarsely, her eyes unable to leave the dreadful injury. "Don't lie to me."

"I've seen men rally from worse." Jervin admitted truthfully, examining the wound with great interest. "But first he will need to survive the night. If he is still with us in the morning, he will likely be fine."

Sansa couldn't respond to such a dire ultimatum, and instead fixed her eyes on Jon's handsome, untarnished face. His eyes had closed, and his chest rose and fell evenly. _It's as though he's asleep, until you notice the bruise on his side._ She thought trivially.

A couple moments later Arya and Davos returned. Arya presented maester Jervin with a fair collection of herbs and remedies, though many were long expired or damaged. The maester assured them that he could work with the scrawny offering, and then instructed the three to leave and let him work. Sansa was wary of leaving Jon in the care of a relative stranger, but knew that she wouldn't have known what to do anyhow, and felt that young Jervin seemed trustworthy enough, at least from her first impression of him.

Weakly the trio made their way downstairs, where the guests had gathered in the Great Hall. A singer was plucking a melancholy tune on a stringed instrument, and the mood was sombre and subdued. Several people politely inquired as to Jon's status or praised his ride that afternoon, but Sansa and Arya hardly replied, laden as they were with grief and anxiety. Gratefully they accepted warm drinks from the serving staff, and sat in the corner, exchanging few words.

Sansa could hardly believe that the tourney had happened this very same day. _Jon saved me, and he's nearly sacrificing his life for it._ Her thoughts wailed, grasping at thin air for reassurance of some sort. _I wish I could put myself in his place._

The hours passed slowly, and soon darkness had fallen on the hall. Sansa had long lost count of how many hot drinks she had consumed, and was feeling exceedingly bitter in her grief. Littlefinger had finally gotten the courage, it seemed, to approach the pair of Starks, and appeared sneakily across the table from their position in the corner.

"My heart goes out to his grace. Such a...valiant ride he displayed today." he mused smoothly, his eyes glinting maliciously in the candlelight. "Your _brother_ brings his _house_ great honour-"

"I want you to leave." Sansa growled coldly, cutting him off abruptly. "Please take your lords, ladies, and knights, and leave Winterfell at dawn." she hissed. "I _know_ you helped us take back Winterfell, and for that I have been grateful, but I also have _not_ forgotten that you sold me to the Boltons." she shouted, her voice now rising and turning several heads in their direction. "Your presence brings my family nothing but trouble, so go back to The Vale and ready yourself for the long winter- just as _we_ should be doing right now!"

Arya grabbed Sansa's arm and cast her a severe warning look, but Sansa ignored her. "Instead I find myself sitting here, wondering if Jon might not survive the night, when he should never have been injured in the first place!" she cried, now rising from her seat. "All because of a _ridiculous_ tournament, and you _continually_ trying to press your advantage over me and my family!"

Lord Baelish stared back at her, his expression guarded but his eyes betraying how she had wounded him. "Is this how you truly feel?" he murmured lowly, rising from his seat to stare her directly in the face.

Sansa nodded, looking down her nose at him in disgust, her gaze icy.

Littlefinger's eyes narrowed. "Then I will remember your words, and leave your family to do as you wish. I promise, things will be different when I see you again." he finished ominously, his eyes never leaving Sansa as he swept away, leaving the hall immediately.

Sansa stood rooted in place, infuriated by Littlefinger, such that she almost didn't notice that maester Jervin had appeared at her side.

"My lady," the young man said quietly. "The king remains in his chambers; I've done all I can for him. Survival is up to him now."

Sansa thanked him faintly, and made to leave the hall, Arya following closely.

"We should stay by his bedside, so he won't be alone when he wakes." Arya suggested, to which Sansa nodded firmly.

Arya then glanced over at Sansa, evidently trying to read her expression. "That was dangerous, what you just did."

"I don't care. Anything to be rid of Littlefinger." Sansa muttered bitterly.

"That's fair, I suppose. He was a lousy, lying arse-kisser at the best of times." Arya responded plainly, nearly causing Sansa to laugh. Her face quickly returned to stone as they arrived at Jon's door.

"I'll grab us some extra blankets, seeing as we're going to spend the night here. I'll join you in a moment." Arya mused, wandering off towards her own room.

Sansa pushed the door open, and saw Jon lying as she had left him, with the addition of several smears of various poultices over his bruise. She made her way to his side and took his hand once more. Unsure what drove her do so, she reached up to stroke his cheek, running her hand tenderly along the side of his face. How alluring he was, even as he slept, his handsome dark eyes closed to the world, and his beautiful ebony hair tousled.

Gently Sansa traced his collarbones with her finger, then the curved scars that marked where his sworn brothers had plunged blades into his chest. She avoided the substantial bruise, not wanting to disturb maester Jervin's work.

_I always wished for a hero, as a child. Here the gods have delivered me one, only I have been too blind to see it._ She thought shamefully. _A handsome, kind-hearted, brave, selfless-_

Sansa's thoughts were deftly interrupted by Arya's return, announced by the creaking of the door. She drew her hand quickly away from Jon's body.

Arya laid the furs by Jon's hearth, forming a sort of bed. "We can take turns sleeping. You can start, if you like." she quipped, her face gently illuminated by firelight.

"No, I don't think I'm able to sleep yet." Sansa mused truthfully. Arya shrugged in silent agreement and came over to Jon's bedside.

"You know, when I fled King's Landing I didn't hold out hope that I would ever see you or Jon again." Arya muttered candidly. "I didn't know where my life would take me, but somehow I never imagined I would get back here, to Winterfell."

"I never thought I would return either, seeing as I was to marry Joffrey." Sansa reflected bitterly. "And I'm sure Jon never thought he would abandon the Night's Watch."

"Yet here we all are."

"Here we all are." Sansa echoed. "And nothing else matters except staying together, and finding Bran, if he's still alive."

Arya looked on mutely, as though she had other ideas. "I can't stay here forever, though." she added suddenly, a gleam of ferocity in her eyes. "Not while there's still revenge to be had."

"You can't be serious." Sansa exclaimed fervently. "You're finally safe and now you want to go back out there?"

Arya shook her head quickly. "Not right away! There's lots to do here right now. I only mean that eventually I'll have to go." she clarified. "I just can't see myself settling down at Winterfell forever, and I have no intention of being married off to anyone- which is what will happen...I mean, it almost happened to you today."

She turned her gaze to Sansa. "But you and Jon, I could see the two of you ruling Winterfell. You're good at bossing everyone around, and Jon's fair and just, like father. The pair of you could live here, and be good rulers who would make the north powerful again."

Sansa was shocked for an instant, and ready to laugh off Arya's imaginings as a foolish dream, until she thought a little harder. _I could live in safety and comfort, protected by Jon, and we could save the north. Maybe one day I'd even have children of my own, and the Stark name would be preserved._ She mused thoughtfully, enchanted by such an ordinary, happy prospect. _Of course, having children would mean marrying again- something I would rather avoid at the moment._ She reminded herself. Still, the image of living out her days at Winterfell was too pleasant to purge from her mind- a much nicer image than Littlefinger had schemingly proposed.

_I don't want to sit the iron throne, or ever go near it again, for that matter. Everything I need is right here._ Sansa decided internally, as though making herself a strict promise. Her thoughts drifted back to the present, and she became aware once more of the crackling and popping of the fire at her back, the sharp smell of herbs, and the feeling of Jon's hand in her own. Eventually she felt her eyelids growing heavy, and took Arya up on her offer to take first watch.

Sansa drifted quickly to sleep on the pile of furs, her thoughts ambling peacefully into oblivion.

She and Arya switched several times that night, one at a time taking their rest by the fire as the other stood vigil over Jon. By the third time Sansa was nudged awake, the first hint of a change in light was beginning to poke its way through the window. She watched the light grow to a gentle beam, illuminating the room and creeping its way towards her feet as she sat in a comfy chair at Jon's bedside.

She had grown so used to watching Jon's motionless figure that when he finally stirred, she was entirely unprepared, and regarded him strangely, almost dreamlike in her wonder.

He slowly opened his eyes, and they seemed to scan the room a moment before they fell on Sansa. The tips of his mouth curved into a gentle smile.

"Sansa." he whispered, pain still audible in his voice.

She must have stared at him in complete shock, open-mouthed, for he felt it prudent to speak again. "I haven't been resurrected again, have I?" he rasped quietly, enjoying her shock.

"Jon!" she exclaimed happily, snapping out of her stupor but remaining quiet and restrained so as not to wake Arya. She reached forward and took his face gently in her hands, "no, you haven't, but I could kiss you right now, just for being alive." she reeled breathlessly, immediately looking appalled at her choice of words. "-I...I mean, I would never have forgiven myself if you had died. Especially since you've saved me from Littlefinger, for now."

Jon glanced at her warmly. "Well, now we're even, anyway. Since you salvaged the battle for Winterfell."

"How are you feeling?" Sansa asked suddenly, her eyes moving to his injury.

"Like someone dropped a boulder on my ribs while I was sleeping, but I'll be alright." he mused, glancing at the strange mixture of pastes on his bruise. "Who did this?"

"-Oh, right." Sansa exclaimed, forgetting that Jon had been nearly unconscious at the end of the tourney. "Ser Davos' nephew, the young maester, arrived yesterday just in time to save your life."

"I suppose I'll have to reward him somehow." Jon muttered thoughtfully. "Seems he's done his job properly, as I'm still here."

"Well, he's proven himself worthy to be Winterfell's maester for the interim, at least." Sansa suggested candidly.

Behind her, Arya stirred, having finally been roused by the sound of voices. Her expression changed visibly as she realized that Jon had awoken. She rushed forward and made to hug him, but changed her mind as she recalled his state. "-Right. Ribs." she muttered, grinning. "I'm so glad you're awake, Jon! I knew you'd pull through." she proclaimed, shooting Sansa a defiant, victorious look.

Jon chuckled a little. "It'll take much more than a wayward lance to finish me." he said faintly, still baring an understated smile.


	7. Between Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark discovery is made in the Wolfswood. A search begins. Jon comes to a realization.

In a few days' time Jon was able to leave his chambers and return, for the most part, to his normal activities. Arya occasionally stopped him from demonstrating more demanding maneuvers as they trained the new Stark soldiers, and Sansa regularly inquired about his condition, (whenever he grimaced after mounting a horse, for instance) but generally the running of Winterfell resumed normally.

Somehow they had outmaneuvered Littlefinger, survived the tourney without Sansa being married off, and been freed of hosting guests for the time being. Jon was elated at their abundant good fortune, but wary nonetheless. Especially after Arya conveyed the details of the manner in which Sansa had sent Littlefinger away.

_He's not done with us yet._ Jon thought darkly after the fact. _Sansa may have eliminated him for the time being, but make no mistake, he will return to wreak more havoc on House Stark._

Jon was also surprised to note that in the wake of the tourney he found himself spending increasingly more time with Sansa. He and Arya had always been close, therefore the many moments they spent in each other's company did not feel out of the ordinary, and in fact felt very natural. Sansa, on the other hand, was still somewhat of a mystery to Jon, and he experienced the strangest thoughts and feelings when they were together.

Many times he caught himself staring at her, not even noticing he had been doing so. Or else he experienced a restless warmth in his chest as he listened to her voice. They spent several evenings deep into their cups, talking more than they ever had before, teasing each other, and lamenting the ways of the world.

Sansa was also sharing Jon's bed (in a harmless, platonic way) nearly every night, abiding by the comfortable system they had established prior to the tournament. Their little game still had yet to be discovered. Jon still found himself terribly at odds with his own thoughts about it, but couldn't bear to make it stop, as he took such pleasure in sharing Sansa's company.

Meanwhile, winter fortification of the castle was well underway, if not nearing completion. Jon had sent teams of men around mending cracks and filling holes, and a careful inventory of their food supplies had been prepared.

A significant issue regarding water had also been identified. As the plunging temperatures froze all landward water sources, the servants found themselves boiling all drinking water for the castle from snow and ice- a tiresome process. Jon had been alerted of the issue, and immediately recalled from master Luwin's lessons that Winterfell supposedly sat atop a vast network of hot springs, which would allow access to plenty of water through the long winters. He and Sansa had descended into the crypts, seeking an access point to the caves. Sure enough, they had encountered a winding stone staircase at the end of the longest, darkest hall, which descended mysteriously into the earth.

Oddly, Jon could not recall ever exploring this particular stair in all his childhood escapades; perhaps he, Robb, and Theon had been scared off by the pressing darkness. That day he and Sansa had traversed it bravely, plunging further below Winterfell than either had even been before, only to find their way blocked by a heavy iron gate, firmly sealed by a thick, rusted lock. The sound of running water had echoed tantalizingly from the dark caves beyond, enticing he and Sansa to vow to search for the lock's key. Evidently someone had thought it prudent to lock up the water supply after the last winter's end, which was now nearly fifteen years ago.

Though Jon had yet to resolve the issue of the water, Winterfell's food situation was becoming favourable despite the challenging weather and lack of preparation. Thanks to a series of continuous efforts by the wildlings and others skilled at hunting and gathering, regular meat and supplies were being hauled in from the Wolfswood. As expected, small duos and trios of hunters were much more effective than the ridiculous horde of northmen who had rode out the day Arya had speared the bear.

The gloominess of the pressing winter was numbed somewhat by Winterfell's positive prospects for survival. _Evidently the combination of Stark and wildling knowledge is a winning one._ Jon oft found himself thinking.

When he wasn't overseeing some function within the castle, Jon enjoyed riding out in the wood in solitude- with only Ghost for company- to set and check traps of his own. Nothing provided him with more immediate satisfaction than returning to the castle with a catch or two to add to the growing food reserves.

A fortnight past the tourney's end, he was headed for the Wolfswood around midday, Ghost loping at his side, to make his usual rounds. As he cantered across the moor, he heard two sets of quick hoofbeats approaching from behind. Jon was startled by the speed at which Arya and Sansa rode up beside him, reining their horses in to match his rhythmic pace.

"I suppose the pair of you fancy a ride in the Wolfswood today as well?" He grumbled, half irritated, half teasing. "Where's Lady Brienne? She's supposed to-"

"We told her to leave us be, and rode out of the gates. There wasn't much she could have done about it." Arya mumbled through laughter.

"And there's nothing you can do to be rid of us, either." Sansa proclaimed haughtily, forcing her way into the conversation with a smirk.

"Is that so?" Jon mused levelly, raising an eyebrow. Wordlessly he kicked his horse into a gallop, such that Arya and Sansa had to urge their horses to speed up in order to not be left behind. His insides warmed happily at their joyful protests and laughter.

The trio sped across the moor jubilantly, laughing as they rarely did under the nagging threat of the winter's war. Arya started a casual game of mounted tag, zipping forward to touch Jon's horse's flank, and causing him to pursue her playfully in retaliation. As they reached the tree line Arya dashed into the forest, closely followed by Ghost, while Jon's horse balked, sending up a cloud of churning snowflakes. He reeled his mount around and galloped, smiling subtly, back toward Sansa, who had been watching gladly from behind.

She feigned terror as Jon's horse strided toward her, and cantered wistfully in the other direction, glancing back over her shoulder with a playful smile.

Jon's heart battered his ribcage under her gaze, nearly distracting him from the task at hand. Her chestnut braid flew about wildly in the stinging wind, and her silver cloak fanned out exquisitely behind her, mingling with her horse's long silver tail.

Jon urged his mount for more speed and galloped up to Sansa's side, forcing her silver mare to turn such that their horses ran together, parallel to the edge of the wood. Jon reached out to tag Sansa's mount several times, but in each attempt the silver mare leapt just barely out of his reach.

Eventually an inward step from Jon's horse brought their horses into a slow circle, in which they cantered nonchalantly. Inexplicably the moment stretched on, neither horse breaking stride. Jon made to turn his horse away and regain pursuit, but found his hands oddly frozen at the reins, as though transfixed. His eyes found Sansa's, and she laughed and smiled, regarding Jon exultantly from across the circle. He gazed back at her bright blue eyes, alive with happiness and vitality, and found himself mesmerized, suddenly willing the moment to go on. _This is happiest I've ever seen her_ …he mused achingly, entirely fixated on Sansa's movements, his thoughts wandering dangerously.

Jon was unprepared for Arya to reemerge from the nearby wood with a crash of breaking branches, and was nearly unseated as his horse reacted in fright. The trance was broken harshly as he and Sansa both fought to remain in their saddles.

"Oi!" Arya called seriously, her expression excited and newly purposeful, "If you two are done circling around each other like idiots, you can come and see what I've just found!"

Jon regained his stability and trotted toward her, his face surely flushed with embarrassment, and Sansa followed. He desperately wanted to look over and observe what sort of emotion was on her face, but forced himself to resist and look firmly ahead instead. Unwittingly, he found his thoughts hazy and his pulse quickened. Sansa had recently begun to have this effect on him, like some sort of vapour which entered Jon's mind and clouded his thoughts, ensnaring all of his senses in the process.

The pair pursued Arya through the trees, travelling perhaps a hundred paces before they encountered the notable discovery.

The fragmented remains of a wight were scattered across a forest clearing, partially buried in snow and disturbing to behold. Ghost stood stone-still at the edge of the clearing, hackles raised and eyeing the pieces vigilantly.

Jon noted that neither Arya nor Sansa reacted severely, merely taking in the scene with wary eyes. In the course of an instant, the joyful fire in their eyes had been extinguished, ushering back the usual icy severity. The frivolous game the three had so recently enjoyed on the moor already seemed a distant memory, or perhaps a daydream.

With a great sinking in the pit of his stomach, Jon was sternly warned of the greater troubles which loomed, as threatening as ever, over their existence at Winterfell. Here was a material reminder, before his own eyes, that whatever small joys they experienced were to be short-lived.

"Do we have to burn it? Could it still come back?" Arya inquired emotionlessly, her eyes darting among the disembodied parts.

Jon eyed the remains with disgust. "I don't think so, but it can't hurt to be certain."

Sansa's expression had grown noticeably appalled. "How d'you think it got past The Wall?"

"Could be it climbed." He said simply, dismounting his horse. Seeing Sansa's doubtful look, he added, "It's possible; I did it once."

"There could be more of them…" Arya noted suddenly, glancing at the surrounding trees as though expecting the dead to come bursting out. "I doubt this one came all this way alone."

Sansa shivered visibly at the thought.

Jon had wordlessly gathered the wight's pieces into a haphazard pile atop several dry branches. He stiffened as Arya spoke his thoughts aloud. He grimaced and spoke slowly, "I think I'm equally concerned about how this one met its end." He admitted candidly, reaching inside his cloak to withdraw a pair of small flint rocks.

"What has the power to pull a wight into pieces…" Sansa muttered quietly, posing the question as more of a statement, powerful in its implications.

Jon looked up from where he had been striking the flint and glanced at Sansa, their eyes meeting in a quick convergence, conveying deep worry.

Arya's face lifted slightly. "Maybe it was Nymeria." She suggested softly, a tentative hope in her voice.

"I don't think a direwolf would attack a wight…there's nothing to eat afterward." Jon said slowly, feeling guilty as he watched Arya's crestfallen reaction. He struck the flint together again, and sparks finally appeared, catching the dry wood hungrily.

The three Starks stood pensively, watching the flames encompass the remains of the wight without speaking.

Jon put away the flint and re-mounted his horse. All plans for trapping had flown from his mind. His only desire was to return Arya and Sansa to the castle. It seemed as though even the forest had darkened considerably, in a forbidding sort of way.

"We're going back." He announced firmly, already walking his horse back towards the moor.

Blessedly, neither Arya nor Sansa objected, and they followed him obediently back to the relative safety of the moor. Ghost loped out in front of the party, bounding along swiftly ahead of Jon's destrier. With an added pang of unease, Jon noted that his direwolf cast frequent glances backward at the forest.

Jon experienced an unexpectedly strong sense of relief when the gates of Winterfell closed behind them, and they were safely back inside the courtyard.

Tormund walked out to meet them, smiling jokingly as usual. "Back so soon, King crow?"

Jon stared back at him, his features rigid with sincerity. "Arya found a dismembered wight in the Wolfswood. I burned it."

Immediately Tormund's face fell, his expression grave. "So the dead have penetrated the wall."

"Not necessarily," Jon added, "there was only one."

Tormund shook his head seriously nonetheless. He glanced to Sansa, eyes narrowed. "You best go pray to those gods yer' always kneeling to by the weirwood. I know I will be."

Sansa stared back at him, her mouth pressed into a firm line. Tormund and Arya left a moment later, heading inside.

Jon and Sansa remained in the courtyard, snow falling in a gentle halo around them. They glanced at each other, passing along their worries and fears silently.

"I'm going to look for that key." Sansa announced quite decidedly after a moment, glancing toward the tower that held Winterfell's damaged library. She strode off resolutely, evidently seeking some purpose as means of distraction.

"Can I come with you?" Jon asked mildly, regarding her gently as the snow fluttered earthward around him.

She turned in surprise, looking ready to object or to throw out some excuse as to why she didn't need watching, but then her gaze softened. She nodded minutely and allowed Jon to catch up.

He walked along at her side and, under her questioning gaze, gave a small shrug. "The library was badly damaged by fire years ago…I don't know that anyone has had a proper look around since. Who knows what might be in there?" he implored conspicuously. "And I can help you look."

Sansa appeared thoughtful as they walked across the yard, likely pondering what sort of unknown things Jon meant.

They arrived at the heavy wooden door to the library tower, and found it reluctant to budge. Jon forced it open with a heavy shove, and immediately the powerful, organic scent of charred paper and decay greeted his nostrils.

He and Sansa coughed a couple times in the fumes, leaving the door open for circulation as they wandered inside. The interior was in an expected state of disarray; the floor was littered with the cluttered chaos of damaged books, broken furniture, and undisturbed dust.

At Jon's side, Sansa regarded the ravaged library with visible sadness. He supposed she might have spent a reasonable amount of time in here as a child. Jon recalled that they had sometimes taken their lessons from master Luwin in here, gathered around the broad oak table, which was now a collapsed heap of burnt wood at the room's centre.

"Everything's gone." Sansa said dispassionately. "All of the wall hangings, the astrolabes, and the trinkets that used to sit on the shelves. Only some of the books remain."

"I'm sure we can thank the ironborn and the Boltons for that." Jon answered sadly. "Might be the key's already been stolen as well, if it was even in here in the first place."

Sansa still looked determined. "I doubt they'd have taken a rusty old key on purpose. Maybe it's well hidden where only a Stark can find it." She suggested, some of her usual confident timbre returning to her voice.

Jon agreed that they should look around, though he was not expecting success. Slowly they made their way around the rubble, Jon keeping a careful eye on Sansa, willing that she not hurt herself in the mess. They pulled some of the undamaged books from the shelves, opening them gingerly as though the key to Winterfell's underground might be hidden inside.

For a long while the pair of them hunted, meticulously opening ragged old books and thoroughly examining all drawers, boxes, and shelves in the annihilated old library.

Sansa occasionally became absorbed in the books she was supposed to be searching; the thud of books being pulled from and replaced in their positions would halt, taken over by the crisp sound of page-turning. Jon couldn't help but glance over whenever this happened, in order to covertly study Sansa's relaxed expression as she became absorbed in her reading. Her face would unwind gradually, becoming noticeably serene, helped by the gentle illumination of the afternoon sun through the library's cracked windows- a golden light which highlighted her russet hair alluringly.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" Sansa asked eventually, after Jon had clandestinely studied her several times; her eyes never left her book and her lips curved discretely into a small smile.

Jon thought he should feel embarrassed at her noticing him, but didn't look away or experience immediate guilt. He continued to watch her, as though it was a natural thing to do.

"I didn't know you liked to read." He covered quickly; the words he had spoken were not a lie, but the real answer was something he had immediately felt a need to keep hidden,

Sansa looked up at him over the edge of her book. "I don't really." she admitted with a hint of a laugh. "It's just that I remember reading some of these before. I read this story not all that long before I left for King's Landing." She added, some of her happiness dissolving.

"It must have been good, if you remember it." Jon suggested easily, meanwhile noting the return of the Sansa-induced tension in his chest, like a desperate, continually held breath, making his heart beat faster.

"It was about the adventures of a maiden, like all of the books I read when I was younger." She muttered bitterly, as though regretting her own naivety. "But it was different, because the maid didn't get rescued and live out her days as some lord's lady, like in all the other stories."

"What did she do instead?" He prompted with raised eyebrows;

Sansa appeared thoughtful, and looked at Jon plainly. "She refused to marry her betrothed, ran away on a mad adventure across the kingdom, and found her way back home, to pine over a man she loved but couldn't have."

Jon gave an uncertain smirk. "That sounds honest, more like the real world."

"It is. I thought of that story often as I was being passed around these last few years. I wondered if I should run off, like that maiden." She admitted wistfully. "Maybe if I could have been brave…"

"You _have_ been brave." Jon stated assertively, putting the book he had been holding back on its shelf. Tentatively he stepped forward, such that his face was less than an arm's length from Sansa's. "After everything that's happened you have reclaimed your home, and you still want to live. Not every person alive can say that, and many a man or woman would have fallen to pieces after experiencing the horrors you've endured." He added gently, eyes softly fixed on Sansa's, silently pleading for her to believe his words.

Sansa regarded him with relative astonishment, her lips slightly parted, breathing deeply. "I didn't know if I wanted to live anymore, until I saw you again at Castle Black." She divulged quietly, her eyes boring deeply into Jon's own.

"But you did anyway. You lived." Jon mused, his face kind. "And I'm grateful for it." He added, his voice nearly breaking.

Before he could register what was happening, Sansa was hugging him gently, her arms wrapped gently around his tender ribs. She rubbed her head gently on Jon's, reminiscent, he reflected, of a nuzzle between wolves. He breathed in her smell and closed his eyes, intoxicated by her closeness. She was warm and pleasant, and had somehow ignited something within Jon which he felt was spiralling dangerously out of his control.

It was at that instant that Jon finally understood the strange feeling in his chest; the tension, the longing, the protectiveness, and the fixation. He had tried subconsciously to deny it, to do something to resist, but he could ignore the truth no longer, for it was as undeniable as it was powerful.

His mind was blank and his chest felt hollow, as though it had been emptied of a great burden, as he surrendered to the inescapable truth.

_I'm in love with her._ Jon thought. _I'm in love with my own sister._


	8. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon wrestle with doubt. A strange omen is brought to Jon's attention. Sansa does something unexpected.

Sansa hugged Jon tightly, agonizingly aware of the pleasing way his body melded against her own, as though their forms were designed intentionally to compliment each other. His breath warmed the back of her neck, and she clung to him steadfastly, though made a point of being gentle around his recently healed midsection.

Why was it, she reflected, that of all places in the world she felt most comfortable in Jon's embrace? It was wrong, Sansa's mind would repeatedly insist, that she craved his closeness; there should have been another in his place...perhaps Robb, her father, or some handsome highborn husband...

Sansa's heart clenched achingly. _But there isn't. All of the good men in my life have gone, except for Jon. And that good highborn husband I used to dream of never existed._

Obviously Jon offered her safety and protection as a brother would, but she hardly fancied him a brother. He was more than that, but Sansa wasn't sure what that meant exactly.

_It's as though he is a life-force which I require to stay alive._ She thought strangely. Perhaps it was the mere knowledge that someone, anyone, cared about her enough to be concerned that made Sansa feel this way. Regardless, she had found herself overwhelmed with fondness for Jon as he had spoken the words; "You lived. And I'm grateful for it.".

He was gratified by her presence, just as she was fulfilled by his. Such simple words they had been, yet Sansa felt atoned by his confirmation that she was needed by another.

And the feeling was mutual. She needed Jon, that much she was certain of. Her need for him was becoming eclipsed, however, by a deeper feeling. This new feeling was bordering on being classified as desire, and was emerging with frightening intensity. Sansa's feelings of want for Jon seemed increasingly prone to exceeding the acceptable exchanges for two siblings. The cordial conversation and polite touch they exchanged was beginning to feel inadequate. She cursed herself every time such thoughts surfaced, unbidden and involuntary, but they were becoming harder to ignore.

She found herself wondering dangerous things; how would it feel to touch him, unabashedly and without restraint? How would it feel to run her fingers through his soft, dark hair? How would it feel to hear him utter her name fervently, as a lover might?

_My mind is plagued by shameful thoughts, how the gods would bemoan to hear._ she mused guiltily, though it was hard to entertain thoughts of shame and sin as she held Jon in her arms.

_He would never share my curiosities._ Sansa told herself. _He is too honourable._ She added, though deep within her a small flame of guilt-laden hope still burned, as Jon continued to embrace her for a long while, not choosing to end their contact.

When they finally did separate, Sansa searched Jon's eyes keenly, wondering what she might see there, and was shocked to see panic and confusion.

_Has he somehow read my thoughts? Perhaps I've sickened him_...Sansa thought with horror.

Jon immediately averted his gaze and continued to look for the key. His movements were jerky and lacked their usual fluidity. Sansa's heart was in her throat as she noticed his transformation. In the course of an instant she had ruined the beautiful connection they had shared. She felt a lump building in her throat but forced herself to keep searching, as Jon was doing.

Sansa could hardly stand the feeling of guilt which the wonderful hug had brought about; it was as though her secret curiosities had been exposed. She soon found herself much too distracted to be of any real use, and hastily excused herself from the library a few moments later.

The afternoon had been futile; they had failed to locate the key, and Sansa had taken a step too far down a road which was utterly unwalkable…

She tried to make her way back to her chambers, where she might be graced with solitude in which she could sort out her contaminated thoughts, but instead found her way impeded by Arya.

"There you are! We've been looking about all afternoon!" Her sister exclaimed, halting Sansa with her body. "There's a good horde of smallfolk in the Great Hall hoping to speak to Jon. Have you seen him?" she quipped innocently.

Sansa shook her head, unable to form words. She tried to protest, but Arya grabbed her by the arm and began to pull her towards the hall, uttering "You'll have to do it, then."

"-Arya-no-I don't want-" she started, but was cut off as her sister thrust her inside the busy Great Hall.

She was immediately forced to keep face, and willed that her expression might mask the terrible turmoil she was experiencing within.

A dozen or so smallfolk from the village- a mixture of men and women, young and old, turned to face Sansa as soon as she was able to take a reluctant seat on Jon's throne.

Sansa's attention threatened to drift toward thoughts of him, but she forcedly fixed her considerations on the ragged people before her instead. Several of the smallfolk tried to speak at once, such that their meanings were incomprehensible. Sansa frowned and silenced them with a small wave. Wordlessly, a single woman was urged forward by her companions, and she held something anxiously in her hands as she regarded Sansa.

"M'lady." she blurted shakily. "There's bin' an ome-" she started, before being briskly cut off by the loud opening of a door. Jon entered the hall at the opposite end and and made his way toward the throne, which Sansa was currently occupying. His face was haggard and he would not meet Sansa's eyes. He stood on her right, one hand resting on the throne's arm. Emotionlessly, Sansa observed that it was nearly touching her own. She quickly returned her gaze to the anxious northwoman.

"Please continue." She prompted blandly, her eyes fixed straight ahead, trying not to be affected by Jon's presence at her side.

The woman swallowed nervously. "Me gran was a faithful servant to th'old gods; she devoted 'er life to understandin' their will. This mornin' she went inter' the wood, and came back carryin' this." she finished, holding out a small object wrapped in cloth with trembling hands. "She was mutterin' about th' gods bringin' cold, dark and death, and kept repeating _for the king_." the woman said gravely.

She made her way slowly forward and presented the wrapped object to Jon. "She died in 'er sleep this afternoon, and this was at 'er bedside. We've assumed she meant for you to 'ave it, your grace." she muttered, her gaze not leaving the floor.

Jon took the object cautiously, his brow furrowed. He unwrapped the layer of cloth to reveal a shining dagger with a lustrous black blade.

"Dragonglass." he said aloud as the thought permeated his mind.

The northwoman nodded slowly. "Some of _them_ ," she stated coldly, gesturing to the other smallfolk behind, "thought I should 'ave chucked it back in the forest; they was callin' it a bad omen. 'ate to admit I agree, but I felt it were more important to honour me gran's wishes. She left us no will, so this 'ere's all I can do for 'er. "

Jon stared at her solemnly, turning the dagger delicately over in his hands. Sansa couldn't help but look at him, deeply immersed in thought as he was.

"Thank you." Jon said suddenly. "And I'm sorry for your loss."

The woman nodded gravely and stepped back to rejoin the rest of the horde.

"Is that all?" Jon added, addressing the shuffling crowd of smallfolk.

"Not quite, 'yer grace." an older man offered, stepping forward. "After an omen like that, we thought we'd chance asking you to open up the gates of Winterfell, to let some of the smallfolk come inside, where it's safe." he pleaded. "The old woman warned of death, and out on that moor we'll be the first to go."

Jon shook his head, looking pained. "I can't do that, much as I might like to. If I open the gates for one, I must open them for all, and we don't have the space." he admitted, disappointment and shame apparent in his voice.

Sansa looked at him darkly. Her earlier worries had been somewhat driven from her mind amidst these more pertinent troubles. She saw Jon's remorse at having to refuse to offer help, but knew that his reasoning held true, and found that she agreed with his decision. In fact, Sansa couldn't help but admit that she rather admired his choosing of such a kingly course of action. The Jon of old might have tried (and failed) to house all of the smallfolk against better judgement.

Below the dais, the smallfolk looked apprehensive and disappointed, but they saluted Jon and Sansa and left the room readily anyhow. They had likely never expected a positive answer.

As soon as the Hall had emptied, Sansa was reminded of her woes, and could scarcely bear to look at Jon as her shame returned wholeheartedly. She rose from the throne and walked briskly from the Hall, eager to finally find some solitude. She hardly glanced at Jon as she left.

Tormund's earlier words from the yard echoed in Sansa's thoughts, and she unwillingly found herself entering the Godswood. She hadn't anything more pressing to do, therefore seeking the presence of the gods seemed a fair course of action.

_Perhaps I might find comfort in atoning for my sins_. She thought dryly.

Around Sansa night was falling; the shadows cast by the snow-covered trees slowly faded into the ground, leaving the landscape an undefined cold relief of blacks and greys. The wood around her tensed and released rhythmically with each breath of chilly wind, and Sansa noted her own exhalations clearly against the darkness.

She crouched by the weirwood, her reflection shimmering in the small pool at its side. She observed with a jolt that by the light of the moon she appeared an exact replica of her mother, down to the cloak and furs she was donning.

_Mother would never have entertained thoughts regarding her brother such as those I harbour of Jon_. Sansa mused with melancholy. _But then, Jon is only my half-brother_. The guilty side of her conscience echoed, as usual.

She sat by the tree for a time, uttering silly prayers for the old gods and the new, unsure whether her words offered her any sort of solace. She was lost in thought, eyes shut to the world, and hardly noticed the sound of approaching footsteps. A gentle hand suddenly rested on her shoulder, and she jolted out of her stupor with a flash of terror. She whipped around in fright and found herself staring into Jon's concerned gaze.

"Sorry, I-I- didn't, I mean, I didn't mean to frighten you." he muttered, his expression uncharacteristically anxious. "I just wanted to see if you were alright, out here, alone."

Sansa took a deep breath and tried to ignore her accelerated pulse on account of Jon's touch, and her unbridled happiness at his willingness to be in her presence. She couldn't help but give a small smile. _Perhaps I've misread everything and he isn't sickened by me after all…_

"I'm fine." Sansa promised quickly, standing so she might speak to him face-to-face. "I was just heeding Tormund's advice."

Jon seemed tense, but his eyes were softly trained on hers nonetheless. There was something unusual burning behind his irises, which she had never noticed before. It was as though he was looking at her differently, though not with disgust, as she had worried earlier.

He cleared his throat and instead regarded the weirwood tree behind. "So do you think the gods heard you?" he muttered openly.

"Tough to say, as always." Sansa mused. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just talking to a tree."

Jon laughed slightly, sending an unwilled shiver of warmth down Sansa's spine.

He shrugged and added, "I'm sure the old gods are listening; though I can't speak for the seven."

"I sometimes forget that you keep the old gods." Sansa chided quietly. "As father did."

Deep thought was evident in Jon's expression, alongside reflection and nostalgia. Perhaps he was recalling the common image from their childhood of Ned sitting under the weirwood, sharpening Ice.

"The seven don't have time for me." Jon kidded after a lengthy pause.

Sansa regarded him deliberately. "I sometimes feel they haven't much consideration for me, either." she answered.

Jon watched her silently for a moment, immersed in thought. As Sansa made to head back inside, he stopped her gently.

"There's another reason I came out to see you."

Sansa unwittingly held her breath, her mind struggling to process his words, wondering what he might say next.

Jon stared at her for a moment, looking to be on the edge of speech. He started to open his mouth but then shut it firmly, as though he had changed his mind mid-thought. He began again and spoke levelly, his expression seeming to calm somewhat.

"I've thought about where else the key might be…" he quipped simply.

Sansa caught herself feeling unjustly disappointed, unsure what she had expected him to say.

Jon continued nonchalantly. "I wondered about father's desk, in the lord's chambers."

"Haven't you been going through that desk for weeks? Wouldn't you have seen it?" Sansa retorted with raised eyebrows.

"There are lots of compartments and hiding places; it could have gotten lost." He suggested, appearing slightly doubtful at his own words. "Care to help me search?"

_I should take tonight to collect my thoughts...to be alone in my own chambers..._ the rational side of Sansa's mind reasoned. However, she couldn't bring herself to refuse the chance to be with Jon. Especially now that she knew he still liked her company…

She accepted and promised to come to his room after they had supped. _To look for the key_...she told herself stubbornly. _This eve is no different than any of the other nights we've spent together._

* * *

Jon and Sansa made their way back inside, where the servants had prepared a hearty meal in their absence. The tantalizing aroma of meat filled Winterfell's stony halls enticingly.

Jon hardly noticed, lost as he was in sinful thoughts. Following his earlier internal epiphany regarding his feelings for Sansa, he found such thoughts more and more difficult to control. Every visible stretch of Sansa's skin seemed to awaken his unseemly lust to be near her, and he found his attention ensnared by her sweet scent. He was utterly torn between self-repulsion and desire to quench the mysterious thirst she had aroused within him.

Just moments ago Jon had nearly broken; he had almost lost control and spilled everything plainly to Sansa's ears in the godswood, but thankfully his wayward moral compass had momentarily steered him true and averted the drastic move.

Jon dazedly took his seat at the head of the dining table, feeling Sansa's presence on his right. She seemed a good deal happier than she had been earlier as she had hastily left the library. After her rapid departure Jon had wondered in dismay if she had somehow learned of his nefarious feelings, but her agreement to help him search for the key this eve was reassurance that things might still be normal.

_But can things ever truly go back to the way they were, now that I've realized I feel this way about Sansa?_ Jon pondered worriedly. _I shouldn't have asked her to my room tonight...that was a foolish, selfish thing to do. I should be stifling this mess before it gets out of hand._

"Ale, your grace?" Davos asked suddenly, drawing Jon out of his thoughts. The knight was offering him a tankard.

"Aye, thanks." Jon muttered quickly, snapping back to the present. He accepted the drink and downed half of it at once. He saw Sansa raise an eyebrow and smirk at him out of the corner of his eye, and he nearly choked.

Arya, sitting immediately to his left, laughed openly at Jon's odd behaviour. "That dagger you got earlier has really twisted you up in knots, Jon." she snickered, spearing a potato with her fork.

"You could say that." He said quietly, not meeting either of his sisters' gazes. The strange weapon from the forest was tucked beneath his cloak, firmly hidden in his leathers.

_What kind of non-Lannister man falls in love with his sister?_ Jon's guilty conscience mused as he ate. _Imagine thinking that way about Arya_...he noted, shuddering at the thought. His hopeful, wicked side immediately retorted that Arya truly was as a little sister to him….but that he and Sansa had never been close, as if that fact rationalized the way he was feeling. _How pathetic I must seem, mentally justifying all of my sins_. Jon thought solemnly.

He tried to promise himself that he would cancel the evening; send Sansa away somehow...but he doubted he would be able to go through with it.

The supper hours passed by agonizingly slowly. The cooking staff had outdone themselves, but Jon was unable to enjoy the meal, guilt-laden and captivated by Sansa as he was. He tried to laugh at Arya's jokes and join in the soldiers' good-hearted singing, but his currently inescapable pit self-loathing put an uncompromising damper on the evening. Jon hoped that he was simply coming across as more brooding than usual, and that his state would be overlooked and attributed to the smallfolk's warning, rather than a tremendous internal moral conflict. He felt sick at the thought of his council members discovering his feelings.

It was with great relief that Jon later departed the Great Hall once the plates were empty and the skies were inky black outside. He headed for his chambers, noting as he passed a window that the night was darker and more still than usual, as though the moon had failed to rise and the winds were asleep. A distant memory stirred of Robb joking that some Night's Watchman had thrown his cloak over the castle. His brother had enjoyed saying things like that when they were young, whenever it was particularly gloomy around Winterfell.

Gratefully, Jon arrived at his room and removed Longclaw, setting it against the wall before he shut his chamber doors, enjoying a moment's respite in which he could bury his head in his hands and lose himself in his thoughts. He thought of his father, his half-siblings...and Sansa.

Jon felt that he had only shut his eyes and opened his thoughts for an instant before there was a placid knock on his door. He stood up, knowing who most likely awaited him on the other side of the door, and steeled himself to make the righteous decision and send her away. However, all of his devout rationale fled his mind as soon as he regarded Sansa staring back at him in the doorway. She clutched her nightclothes and a book, and watched him breathlessly, a hint of pink dusting her porcelain cheeks. She saw his eyes travel to her book, and explained, "I ran back to the library and got it."

Jon nodded and let her inside. His mind was screaming to stop, to send her away, to do _something_ , but his body refused to obey. As soon as she was inside, Sansa plunked her nightclothes and book on top of a chair, and swiftly undid her braid, letting her copper hair fall in a delicate, natural circle over her shoulders and down her back. She saw that Jon had been watching her, and turned, if possible, an even deeper shade of pink.

"Sorry, I just...It's more comfortable."

"You don't have to explain." He answered gently, allowing a hint of a smile to shape his mouth.

Jon shook himself from watching her and strode over to the desk. _It's harmless if we just do what she came for_ … he advised himself. _The key_. He reminded his wandering thoughts repeatedly.

The pair met side-by-side at the desk and began to empty it, analyzing its contents scrupulously.

"I'm beginning to understand why you suggested doing this." Sansa muttered after some time as she opened a drawer which was full of small, locked boxes. At her side, Jon flipped through a thick stack of old letters and smiled discreetly at her comment.

"Father had more secrets than I thought." she added as she attempted to pry one of the boxes open. "And the key could be in any one of these."

Jon shrugged and stared at her softly. "All the more reason to keep looking."

Sansa smiled back at him. They continued to sort through the desk's contents, and both found themselves at great ease after several exchanges of regular conversation. Whatever strange tensions had arisen between them that afternoon were buried, at least temporarily.

Jon was happy to be talking easily with Sansa as they always did on their nights together. In the presence of some familiarity his anxieties had retreated, and he was fully comfortable for the first time since the moments in the library. The hours passed quickly, and soon the candlelight under which they were working was fading as the candles melted to stubs. Though the key was still evading detection, Sansa and Jon agreed that it was, in all likelihood, somewhere in the labyrinthine desk, and agreed to continue searching later.

Sansa yawned and gathered her nightclothes. She regarded Jon thoughtfully for a moment, as though pondering whether or not to stay, but then seemed to make up her mind.

"Douse the lights." She said quietly, almost sleepily.

Jon unquestioningly obeyed and snuffed out the candles, sending the room into blackness. He heard the shuffle of shifting clothing as Sansa changed into her nightclothes. He habitually averted his eyes, unsure what to make of this progression; she had never changed in his chambers before. He was sorely tempted to cast a glance over to where she stood, but willfully kept his gaze fixed on the ground.

_You fool, Jon Snow. It's too dark anyways._ His audacious thoughts sneered. He knew exactly what Ygritte would have said to him...

After some time Sansa relit one of the candles on Jon's nightstand, which illuminated her figure, now clothed in a soft, pale nightdress. She sat down on his bed, opened her book and after a time looked upward at Jon, her blue eyes dancing in the candlelight.

"Why does this feel so ordinary? And comfortable?" she chided suddenly, her smile discernible through the dancing shadows. "Spending the night here with you- talking, laughing, and searching for that key as if there isn't a war looming over us."

"I wish I knew." Jon said plainly.

Sansa studied him thoughtfully. "I could never imagine doing this with Robb."

Jon met her eyes carefully, wondering what she was insinuating. "Well, I suppose Robb and I are quite different". He echoed tentatively.

"True; he never had as much hair as you nor spent as much time brooding." she teased slyly.

Jon stared back at her smugly and gave a shrug of surrender.

Sansa eyed him pensively. "And you? Do you like our nights together?"

"More than I'd care to admit." he conceded. "It's nice, not thinking about the future for a change."

"Whatever happens, I want you to promise me we'll stay together." Sansa urged suddenly, her eyes burning into Jon's own. "I wouldn't give this up; not for anything."

Jon nodded slowly. "I promise." he said firmly. "Where will we go...remember?"

Sansa nodded and smiled warmly, returning her gaze to her book. After a few heartbeats her eyes rose up to meet Jon's once more.

"Would you read to me?" She suddenly asked, regarding him gently. "I'd like to hear it in your voice."

Jon considered her momentarily, then smiled understatedly. "Alright." he agreed, taking a passive seat on the bed. He lay down took the book deftly from Sansa's fair hands. She reclined slowly at his side and watched him expectantly.

He paused to observe her for a moment before clearing his throat and turning to the first page.

He slowly started to spin the tale, enjoying having her attention fixed on his voice. He droned on calmly, not paying particular attention to the events of the story, but feeling quite attentive to Sansa curled at his side, listening. At some point she took his hand and held it gently in her own. Eventually her head also came to rest on his shoulder, leaving her shining russet hair splayed out over the pillows. Just as Jon noticed his own eyelids growing heavy, he felt her breathing level and deepen as she sunk into a tranquil sleep.

Jon couldn't remember halting his reading, but he must have done so eventually, for he found sleep as well, his final sensations being of the book falling from his grasp, and of Sansa's fingers curled gingerly into his own.

* * *

An unpleasant scratching noise roused Sansa some hours later. She slowly opened her eyes to note that the lone candle at Jon's bedside had long burnt out, and that the night was murky and chilling. She also realized with a start that Ghost had never been let inside…

_Perhaps it's just Ghost at the door_...she mused sleepily. Her theory was dashed a second later as the scratching sounded again, most definitely coming from the vicinity of the shuttered window. Sansa instinctively curled deeper into Jon's side, seeking his soothing warmth in the hopes that she might fall back asleep. After a moment of pressing silence she was sent upright with fear as the haunting scratching sound returned, louder and more urgent than before.

Heart pounding, Sansa squinted to see the outline of Jon's window through the intense darkness, for that seemed to be where the noise was coming from. She was about to prod Jon's sleeping form, when the window burst open, startling her. Under the thick veil of shadow she could not make anything out, but she felt as though something had slipped inside the chamber, climbing swiftly through the open window.

She nudged Jon roughly. "Wake up. " she whispered. "Jon, wake up." she added with more urgency.

He stirred and his eyes fluttered. Sansa could have sworn she saw movement under the window…

"Jon!" she hissed, her voice growing quite anxious. He finally opened his eyes and looked up at her, groggy with sleep.

"Wha's'wrong" he mumbled drowsily, sitting upright and scanning the room.

Sansa clutched his arm and pointed to the window, though she doubted he could see her gesture through the gloom. "There's something there." She breathed, her heart hammering at her ribcage.

She heard Jon's breathing quicken slightly beside her, and felt herself jerked forward as he leapt from the bed. Sansa heard the definitive scratchings of something moving on the ground, and thought she saw Jon grab his sword from its position against the wall.

Jon moved his body in front of Sansa's such that she was safely defended in the corner of the room. She thought she could make out the sharp gleam of Longclaw amidst the shadows, pointed toward the open window. She unknowingly held her breath, her eyes finally starting to adjust…

Suddenly Jon swung his sword with a cry, and Sansa heard an unholy shriek split the air, mixed with the crunch of Longclaw finding a target. There appeared to be a struggle, and Jon was hacking at something in the piceous shadows.

Sansa wanted to cry out, but instead she reached for Jon's night table, where she fumbled for a candle, and struggled blindly to light it. _Let me give him some light; please, let us see what he is fighting._ She prayed frantically, gasping as she burnt her hand slightly in one of her feeble attempts to summon flame. She saw flashes of violent movement in her peripheral vision, and found her hands shaking in panic.

Blessedly, she suddenly managed to strike true, and the candle caught fire, eating away at the deadly shadows. Sansa whipped around to see Jon administer a deadly blow to his opponent whom, from the look of his horrid, mangled body, appeared to be a wight.

In a swift strike Longclaw lopped the wight's head clean off, sending it rolling across the floor. The corpse crumpled, and Jon stood, silhouetted against the window, holding his bloodless sword, looking utterly dumbfounded.

Slowly, Jon turned to stare at Sansa, his breathing ragged but his body unharmed. His anxious dark eyes met Sansa's wide, aghast blue ones.

Sansa nearly dropped the candle back onto Jon's night table, and then stepped towards him. Her mind seemed devoid of thought, as though it were detached from her body. All that existed was adrenaline, relief, and passion. With accelerated steps and utter abandon, Sansa threw herself toward Jon, and before she could register any sort of hesitation or conscience, she was kissing him wholeheartedly.

She felt his shock as their lips met, and heard the echoing clatter of Longclaw hitting the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as much as I have completed for the time being- I'm on a temporary writing hiatus until finals are over in mid-december. I promise to pick this up again once I'm free of studying obligations! So please check in later for updates! And let me know what you think so far, or if you have any suggestions for the story...
> 
> Happy Holidays :) Thanks for reading thus far!


	9. Underfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is crowded. Sansa worries and waits. A new proposal comes forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, :) sorry I've been out of the picture for so long. I was preoccupied over the holidays then struggled with some writer's block, but after a wonderful re-watch of season 6 I'm back into writing. Thanks to all new followers, hope this chapter isn't a total mess, since It's been a while since I've written anything. Let me know what you think and, as always, where you hope the story might go!

For a long instant Jon's mind was blank, and he stood statue-still as Sansa pressed her lips to his. Then, without warning, the cogs and gears of his mind whirred to life and, following a heartbeat of shock and panic, he found himself kissing her back.

Sansa's lips were soft and she tasted sweet- of honey, lavender, and home. Her eyes were shut and she pressed into him tentatively, testing the waters of her actions. All of Jon's worries and doubts fled amidst the thrill of kissing Sansa. Right or wrong did not exist; there was only their embrace, the euphoric sensation of her lips on his, and the way she seemed to draw forward an uncontrollable fire from deep within Jon's chest.

Enraptured, Jon thought _we should have done this long ago…_

Eventually Sansa drew back and regarded him blankly. Her eyes glowed like icy sapphires in the half-shadows, and her hair was fringed with a halo of golden candlelight.

Jon's heart thrashed about rapidly in his chest, and his throat welled with the words that needed to be said. The silence stretched, both simply staring at each other profoundly. Just as Jon opened his mouth to speak, the door to his chamber echoed with frantic knocking.

"Jon! Wake up- there's wights in the castle!" Arya called from the other side of the door.

He snapped to his senses and tore his eyes from Sansa's, heading over to the door. He let Arya inside breathlessly, his movements untidy and disrupted.

Arya's brow creased in confusion as her eyes fell on Sansa, night-clothed and standing in Jon's chambers beside the decapitated body of a wight. She was acutely aware of a reddening in her sister's cheeks.

"What in the seven hells-" Arya started, before being briskly cut off by Jon.

"Not important right now." He insisted quickly, not meeting her eyes. He grabbed his leathers and strapped them on hastily, pausing only to draw out the dragonglass dagger from the folds.

Once leathered Jon presented the ebony blade to Sansa, and she took it earnestly, eyes boring into Jon's.

"Just in case." He murmured worriedly, studying her face for traces of fear. "Lock yourself in your chambers and we'll send for Lady Brienne to keep watch."

"I won't leave you- not now." Sansa declared firmly, causing Jon's heart to inadvertently warm with pleasure. "I don't want to sit up here wondering what's going on downstairs."

Arya appeared confused, switching her stern gaze from Sansa to Jon measuredly. "He's not going off to war." She noted, raising an eyebrow. "They're just wights."

Sansa exhaled and seemed to find herself. "Let me wait in the Great Hall, at least."

Jon conceded with a nod. He paused as he noticed that Sansa's hand was harbouring an inflamed, scarlet blister where it had contacted the candlefire, and took it gingerly in his own. He heard her inhale sharply.

"Does it hurt terribly?" Jon quipped, recalling his own experiences nursing a burnt hand.

"It's not unbearable." She answered quietly, not pulling her hand from his gentle grasp.

His eyes darted upward to find Sansa's, promising a later conversation, "Still, you should find maester Jervin and see it tended to."

Arya cleared her throat impatiently and gestured to the door. "I don't know what all this-" she drawled, indicating Jon and Sansa with a frown, "-is about, but we have real problems to worry about at the moment."

Jon nodded and freed Sansa's hand, casting her an apologetic glance.

The trio stalked out of Jon's chambers and headed for the Great Hall, approaching each blind corner with caution. Listening attentively, Jon and Arya held their swords aloft.

_The night is still eerily quiet._ Jon noted worriedly. Winterfell seemed to remain in a slumber, and he was unsure how sufficient noise had been produced to wake Arya. He concluded that she must have very sensitive ears…

As Jon, Sansa, and Arya crossed the landing between the Great keep and the Great Hall, they ran into Lady Brienne, who appeared severely flustered.

"Thank the gods you're all unharmed." Sansa's protector muttered, sheathing her sword. "You must've heard the wights?"

"One climbed into Jon's chambers, actually." Sansa quipped, causing Brienne and Arya to shoot her questioning looks, eyebrows raised.

Jon immediately stepped forward, hoping to fend off their questions, and added "I fetched Sansa after the wight intruded to make sure she was safe." he lied quickly.

Arya still bore a visage of firm suspicion. "And then you brought her back to your room?" she prodded disbelievingly, causing Sansa to redden once more. Jon opened his mouth to reply, but no sound was emitted.

"What of you, Lady Brienne? Where have you been?" Sansa mused, trying desperately to refocus Arya's attentions.

"With the assistance of the guards I dispatched of half a dozen wights that had found their way into the courtyard. There may be more inside the castle's walls, but it's difficult to be sure, as they make little noise, and most of the castle remains asleep." Brienne finished with a nod.

Arya exhaled sharply. "I killed two over in the bell tower."

"What were you doing up there in the middle of the night?" Jon exclaimed discontentedly.

Arya snorted and crossed her arms. "It's _not important right now_." she proclaimed, mocking Jon's voice.

He stared back at her indignantly but decided it best not to address the issue at this moment. Jon sighed and glanced back at Brienne. "Nine wights? That can't be the extent of it." he murmured, casting a glance out over the battlements in a futile attempt to see the moor beyond. "I should ride out into the village, to make sure there aren't more hanging about."

"A wise course of action, your grace." The protector nodded. "Shall I rouse Tormund and the wildlings and have them meet you by the East Gate with horses? We can depart immediately..."

"Aye, but I want you to remain behind. To guard the Sansa and Arya in the Great Hall." Jon stated firmly. "Perhaps gather the other women and children as well from the servants' quarters."

Arya huffed indignantly. "No way I'm staying locked up with the _women and children_! I'll fight, thank you very much." She declared, daring her brother to challenge her.

Jon's face clenched in exasperation. "You can stand guard with Brienne, but you're not to go beyond the gates of Winterfell." he conceded tartly. He turned to walk away, not wanting to meet Arya's gaze.

She marched after him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. "I'm not a child." She said steadily, eyes boring powerfully into Jon's. "I'm a fighter, like you."

Jon stared at her and softened slightly. "I know that, and I care about your safety, is all. Leave fighting the wights to those with more experience, for tonight."

Arya looked at him ruefully, and Jon felt hollow inside, having to refuse her, but her safety was too important. He looked at Arya, Sansa, and Brienne, consecutively. "Keep safe- all of you. I'll be back soon." Jon vowed, his eyes meeting Sansa's for a quick instant before he turned to march off.

Jon rode out into the Winter Village with Tormund and a dozen wildling fighters behind him. Night was still drawn over the buildings like a dark cloak, and the moon was shrouded behind murky clouds. Flags and banners stood still in their rings, dead in the complete absence of wind. Ghostly torches burned in their holsters on the walls, bathing the horses in an ethereal russet glow.

Though the narrow dirt streets were nearly empty save for a few drunk stragglers, occasional strangled cries from unknown sources seemed to slice through the static air, sending tremors down Jon's spine.

"It's like the dead bastards are killin' men in th'er sleep." Tormund whispered behind him, his voice echoing eerily in the reticence.

Jon nodded, one hand clutching Longclaw's hilt.

"D'you' think they're here alone?" A Spearwife at Jon's back called out tentatively. "Could it be they're here without one o' their icy commanders?"

"Let's hope so." Jon breathed, his insides churning at the possibility that the white walkers could have already made it this far south. "Though I don't know how or why."

The group marched their horses through the empty streets, Jon feeling uncertain what to do.

He hardly had a heartbeat to think about it, for in the course of a single moment the town seemed to come to life. A hundred shrill screams pierced the air, sending Jon's party's horses careening wildly, eyes rolling in their sockets as they tossed their heads.

Jon drew his sword and scanned the surrounding area frantically for the source of the commotion, but found that he and his mount were very quickly enveloped by smallfolk who had come rushing out of their homes.

Men were shouting and brandishing weapons while children were crying underfoot. Wights seemed to have burst forth from some unknown location, and were slashing their way through the crowds.

Jon tried in vain to shout commands at his fighters, but his voice dissolved instantly into the melee. He reined in his horse and tried to push forward, but the throngs were too concentrated for his horse to take a single step without crushing someone.

There seemed to be dozens of wights, and the panicked civilians were no match for the undead. With a sigh of capitulation, Jon vaulted off of his horse, hoping that the wildlings would follow his lead.

He weaved through the writhing crowd with Longclaw aloft, suffering accidental assault from elbows, hips, and homemade weapons simultaneously. He pressed forward until he came upon a wight, which he did his best to hack to pieces given the lack of space before continuing onward to seek another opponent.

The dirt beneath Jon's boots was stained scarlet, and the frenzied horde of smallfolk continued to shove about recklessly. He was unsure what the people hoped to accomplish in their panic, nor why they had all fled their homes. He simply continued to shove, hack, and press on, his arms growing weary.

_There's no end to this...is the winter's war already upon us?_ Jon queried with a jolt. _We aren't ready._

* * *

Sansa stood at the window of the Great Hall, listening. Anxiously, she fingered the bandage maester Jervin had wrapped round her burn. Strange, otherworldly screams had shaken Winterfell just a few moments past, and now the ground trembled with the stomping of many moving people. _What in the name of the gods is happening out there?_ Sansa wondered with terror, her heart constricting at the thought that Jon had just ridden outside Winterfell's walls…

_Jon, Jon, Jon,_ Sansa's thoughts echoed, filled to the brim with his name, and with memories of kissing him.

Deliriously, Sansa reflected, _I've kissed my own brother, and he kissed me back._

She tried to decide how it made her feel, to want the only man she shouldn't have. Reckless, perhaps? Or disgraceful? Kissing Jon had been an impulsive move, spurred by adrenaline. The fact that he had not rejected her attentions certainly changed things. Jon's honour had been Sansa's security, her assurance that things would never go too far.

_The fact that he feels the same way makes what we have even more dangerous._ She decided. _That's not to mention Arya…_

Sansa cast a glance at her sister, who sat alone in one corner of the hall, sharpening Needle.

_Forget her little spat with Jon about fighting- it's the fact that she's nearly discovered us twice that we should be worrying about!_

Sansa directed her attentions back at the window with a sigh, beyond which the sounds of conflict still resonated from beyond Winterfell's walls. She listened for a while, her insides churning at the feeling of powerlessness she was experiencing.

When she could stand the waiting no longer, she marched over to Brienne at the Hall's doors.

"Let me walk the ramparts so I might see what is transpiring out there." Sansa demanded urgently, haphazardly adding "Please."

The women and children in the hall looked up from their prayers, regarding Sansa intently. Even Arya stopped her sharpening, eyes falling on her sister darkly.

"I'm sorry my lady, but the King forbade me to let anyone out until it's safe." Brienne said solemnly, not moving.

"You are sworn to protect and obey-" Sansa started.

"-And protect you I will. There could still be wights within the castle."

Sansa exhaled sharply. "But how will we know if it's safe if we never leave this Hall?"

"She has a fair point." Arya noted glumly, having left her corner and come to stand by Sansa's side.

They turned as the door at the other end of the hall opened, the soldier on guard emitting someone inside with a few mumbled words. Ser Davos marched into the Hall with a frown, scanning the room for Sansa and Arya, no doubt.

When he spotted them at Brienne's side he marched over hastily. "Thought you two might like an update." he muttered.

"Thank the gods." Sansa murmured, fixing her eyes steadfastly on the onion knight. "It's terrible, being holed up in here."

"Pardons m'lady, but likely not as terrible as what's befallen the poor souls outside."

Brienne regarded Davos intently. "And what would that be? Surely not a wight army?"

"No, but near enough to it. Wights have swarmed the village. The king and the others are tryin' their best to control it, but the people are in a panic, making things very difficult."

Sansa gasped, noting the appalling sounds she had heard at the window. "You've sent the soldiers out to help Jon, I hope?!"

Davos appeared pained. "We're desperate to do so, m'lady, but the smallfolk are pressed ten deep against the gates and beating them with their fists, so we daren't open the doors. The last thing we need is hundreds of terrified people storming the castle."

Sansa swallowed with great trepidation and glanced back at the window. The inky sky was streaked with the first hints of blue, suggesting the approach of the sunrise. She uttered a prayer for Jon, to whichever gods were listening.

Davos left a few moments later, heading back to the ramparts to see what sort of assistance he might be able to offer. The following hour passed agonizingly slowly, and Sansa spoke to no one. She stood abjectly by the window, watching colour bloom in the morning sky.

As the sun first breached the horizon, she heard the door to the Great Hall swing open once more, and her heart leapt in furor. She smiled as she saw Jon enter, still holding his sword and appearing unharmed save for a few scratches on his face.

Sansa's expression turned to one of confusion as several unfamiliar individuals followed him inside. Behind Tormund entered an armoured woman and a trio of men bearing no sigils.

She walked closer, shadowed by Arya. Sansa wanted to hug Jon, to talk to him, and to have him to herself for a while, but now was not the time.

"The village and the castle are safe?" She chided, her eyes meeting Jon's with a flash of inquiry.

"Aye." He nodded. "More or less. Though not without assistance." He murmured, glancing back at the visitors. "This is Lady Alys Karstark, her brother Lord Harald Karstark, Ser Karl, and Ser Mollen." He mused apprehensively.

"My lady." The group echoed alternately at Sansa and Arya, in turn.

Sansa raised her eyebrows. "I don't see your sigil- the white sunburst on black."

"We've been trying to keep quiet and unassuming." Lord Harald offered. "Since the battle, that is."

"In which you fought for the Boltons." Sansa stated sharply, sending the room into silence.

Lady Alys glared at her brother defiantly, but Lord Harald would not move his gaze from the floor. "We were false, my lady, that much is true," he suggested meekly. "We fought for the wrong side because we couldn't forgive what happened in the past, and now most of the North despises our house for fighting against the true king." he finished, gesturing to Jon, who stared back at him pensively.

"We've come to make peace." Lady Alys quipped coolly. "And to offer you our army, which is still one of the largest in the North."

"Where is this army?" Tormund piped from behind. "Only the four o' you came to fight. Ain't much of a force if you ask me."

"The Karstark bannermen and soldiers are back at Karhold, awaiting my orders." Lord Harald declared stoutly, eyeing Tormund with dislike.

Jon studied Lord Harald skeptically, as though seeking evidence for suspicion. "I suppose all's in order, though I still wonder what the Lord of House Karstark is doing at Winterfell with naught but his sister and two knights for company."

"It's like my brother said- we have to keep quiet; the Karstark name is not as popular as it once was." Lady Alys mused, eyeing Jon intently.

Lord Harald cleared his throat. "Truthfully there's another matter we originally came to Winterfell to discuss, one which does not require legions of soldiers." He admitted with a small smile. "In order to prove House Karstark's unwavering loyalty to House Stark for all of the North to see, and to promote good faith and prosperity in such times as these, we'd like to propose a marriage,"

_Here we go again._ Sansa thought testily, inwardly rolling her eyes.

"-between Lady Alys and yourself, your grace." Lord Harald proclaimed, eyes dancing between his sister- who was smiling coyly- and Jon, who appeared frozen and emotionless.

Sansa's heart gave a surprised lurch, nearly leaping up into her throat amidst her sudden shock. She had been so prepared for a proposal of her own marriage that she had neglected to consider an alternative match. The thought of Jon marrying made her sick- now even more so than usual.

She cast a calculating glance at Lady Alys, who was staring at Jon smugly. She was not particularly tall, nor noticeably stunning, though she had an ordinary, homey sort of beauty. She had pale skin, freckles, and auburn hair not dissimilar from Sansa's own. She also appeared to be quite muscular, no doubt from swordfighting, judging by her armour and scabbard, and had already proven to have a confident tongue. _All things Jon might find appealing._ Sansa decided worriedly.

She tried to present herself as unconcerned and vaguely interested on the surface, but internally she was screaming, more desperate than ever for a private conversation with Jon.

Surprisingly, it was Jon who spoke first. "Before we discuss anything I'll need a word with my sisters." He stated plainly, his dark eyes finding Sansa's. "Warm yourselves by the hearth, and enjoy some food and ale." He added with a glance at the kitchen staff several tables over, who immediately rose from their seats and exited the hall.

Jon led Sansa and Arya from the room and into the adjacent solar, where he shut the door loudly and secured it with a latch.

Sansa and Arya regarded him carefully, taking seats at two of the solar's ancient oak chairs.

"Tell us what happened." Arya prompted plainly, her face void of expression.

Jon sighed and took a seat beside Sansa. "When we rode out it was dead quiet, until suddenly everyone ran out into the streets, including the wights." He muttered, dropping his face into his hands exasperatedly. "We couldn't move, it was so thick with people, and the wights were all around, slaughtering everyone like animals. I dismounted and tried to cut through the crowd."

Arya was watching Jon with great interest, but Sansa felt violated by the wight invasion. _How did they make it to Winterfell? How did they breach the Wall?_ Her thoughts repeatedly echoed loudly.

"We kept fighting for a long time, but the wights seemed endless, like an enormous army." Jon said quietly. "They killed men, women, children, babes at the breast...and three of my best wildling fighters."

Sansa heard Jon's throat tighten and tried her best to stifle her own dread and sorrow, willing herself to remain strong for his sake.

"When did the Karstarks come in?" Arya questioned simply.

Jon looked at her blankly. "When the first hints of dawn were appearing they rode in and helped us finish the wights off. It would've taken a lot longer and many more might've died without their help."

"Does that excuse the fact that they abandoned us in our time of greatest need?" Sansa asked coldly.

Jon looked uncertain. "I don't know that I want them around either," he started, "but we all have to do our part to unite the North if we're to stand a chance against the army of the dead."

"You mean like the army you faced today?" Arya mused with a raised eyebrow.

He shook his head. "That was only a sample of what's to come. Likely just a horde that scaled the Wall."

"You say that like it's not concerning."

Jon looked at Arya grimly. "It's going to get a lot worse. Which is why we need the Karstarks."

Sansa gazed at Jon indignantly. "They owe us- you shouldn't have to marry Alys to secure their loyalty!" she shouted rather louder than she had intended.

"I don't know what I have to do just yet." Jon replied calmly.

Sansa frowned and made to get up and leave the solar, but Jon grabbed her arm gently. "Wait. I'd like a word." he asked softly. "Alone?" He questioned tentatively, glancing at Arya with pleading.

Arya huffed and stood up. Glaring at Jon, she stomped out of the room.

_He has some mending to do there_... Sansa mused quickly before turning her eyes to Jon, who was looking up at her with a mix of yearning, despair, and fascination, as though seeing her for the first time.


	10. The Ice Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa confess. Sansa learns to fight. An epiphany is reached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe it I've made it to part 10 with this story! As with all my stories I do have an endgame in mind, though I don't usually make it there...hopefully this story will be the exception and I might actually finish something for once haha.
> 
> Anyhow I promise there's still lots of story left to go; thanks to all who have stuck with me and made it to part 10! You all deserve awards because it's a decent chunk of reading. Hope I'm keeping your interest! Enjoy the next offering, hopefully I can continue this writing momentum I've generated...

Jon’s breath caught in his throat as he grabbed Sansa’s arm. The solar had slipped into silence with Arya’s departure, leaving only the sound of his own heartbeat to keep his ears busy. 

“What happened in my chambers…” he started quietly, incapable of continuing as he lost his thoughts to doubt. _...Explains everything that’s happened since we left Castle Black...and makes me shrivel with fear but cry out in euphoria at the same time..._ he finished internally. 

“I don’t regret any of it.” Sansa whispered, her eyes raking Jon’s skillfully, searching for a betrayal of thought. 

Jon regarded her carefully. “Nor do I.” he muttered, rising from his chair. “I’m not certain exactly what I feel, but I know it isn’t regret.” 

Tenderly he reached his hand forward to rest it on the side of Sansa’s porcelain face. She did not shrink away nor avert her gaze, but trembled at his touch and exhaled sharply. He ached to kiss her.

“I love you, Sansa, much more deeply than a brother should.” he exclaimed softly. “Perhaps I’ve always felt so, and just never come to realize it.” 

“Even when I was vile to you when we were younger?” Sansa murmured, emitting a tiny smirk over a stiff visage of concern. 

Jon smiled minutely back. “Even then, I think.” he admitted. Sansa looked back at him radiantly; though her face was heavy with emotion her hair was lustrous in the morning sunlight and her lips were very inviting. 

He frowned and let his hand fall. “Now that I know you feel something toward me in return-”

“-Not just something.” Sansa interrupted, her expression fiery. “I’m hopelessly infatuated with you, Jon Snow, and want nothing more than to be yours, and for you to be mine.” she confessed breathlessly, her chest heaving. “And it kills me that I cannot have you.” she finished weakly. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. 

Jon regarded her wistfully, unable to hide his shock at the depth of her remorse. He stared back at her for a while in silence. 

“Then where do we go from here?” he inquired simply. _We both want the one thing we cannot have- each other._ His mind thought sadly. 

“On.” Sansa answered simply. “Nothing will change; we still have a war to prepare for.”

“And a country to unite.” Jon added, his heart sinking. “We cannot allow the Northerners to even suspect...us...because it could ruin everything.”

“What if one of us has to marry, though.” Sansa whispered shakily. “Like you with Alys. You can’t marry her- I don’t know that I could live with you belonging to another.”

“Neither of us _must_ marry anyone-”

“-That’s not true and you know it.” Sansa retorted quickly. “Sooner or later some pact will inevitably have to be made,” She shouted irritably. “And we’ll be separated.” 

“If that’s what you think will happen then there’s little we can do about it while we share common blood.” Jon declared dejectedly. 

“Perhaps not, but you can start by not marrying Alys Karstark.” She countered indignantly. 

Jon reddened and his voice rose noticeably. “What if this marriage is what’s best for the North? It’s not as if I can just marry you instead, Sansa!” 

“I understand that, but-”

The usual interruption halted their heated conversation in the form of several loud knocks on the door to the solar. 

“Pardons, your grace, Lady Sansa, but the Karstarks are inquiring as to your return.” Davos called tentatively from beyond the door. 

Jon glanced regretfully at Sansa, who returned an unhappy gaze. “We’d best get back. Shouldn’t keep your _bride_ waiting.” she sneered, turning to stalk out of the room.

“Sansa, wait!” Jon called after her, but she had already strode out of sight, leaving only a befuddled-looking Ser Davos in the doorway.

* * *

Sansa hardly touched the food that the cooks had prepared for she, Jon, and the Karstarks. She repeatedly turned over spoonfuls of mash and allowed her peas to tumble from her fork. Her attention was focused instead on Alys Karstark, who had, annoyingly enough, seated herself immediately to Jon’s left. 

The red-headed fighter was engaging Jon in active conversation, trying to prompt the king to speak with relative success, to Sansa’s dismay. She listened carefully, eyeing Lady Alys with apprehension.

“I’ve been swinging this sword since before I could walk.” The redhead mused. “First I fought my brothers, but once I could best them easily I faced knights and travelling sellswords instead. There were always many wandering folk passing through the ports outside Karhold.” she chided, eyeing Jon continuously. “I saw you fight when you reclaimed Winterfell- you seem a fair swordsman yourself.” she teased. 

Jon seemed to blush and became suddenly focused on his food. “I’ve done some fighting in my time as a member of the Night’s Watch.” 

“I can imagine.” Lady Alys crooned. “Perhaps you’d like a match in the courtyard after we’ve finished here?”

Jon hesitated and glanced at Sansa. After some trepidation he nodded. “As you wish, my lady.”

Lady Alys smiled at him before turning to face Sansa. “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner- I suppose we’ve likely met before.” she noted brightly. 

“I don’t know that we have.” Sansa answered plainly. 

“A fair point- I think I would remember you.” Alys admitted. “I’ve heard stories all around the North of your beauty.” she added, casting Sansa a studying gaze.

Unsure how to respond, Sansa looked back at Lady Alys stiffly. “Thank you Lady Alys...I’m certain I’ve heard mention of your skills with the sword...in my travels.” she lied obligatorily. 

“Ah, I don't doubt you’ve gotten around- you spent a good deal of time in the South before winding up married to Ramsay Bolton, if I am not mistaken?”

“That is correct.” She replied coldly. 

“I suppose there’ll be plenty of time in the future to hear of all that.” She rambled. 

Lord Harald cleared his throat decisively. “Your grace,” he called, glancing over at Jon on the opposite end of the table. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?” 

Jon looked up at him blankly. “I’ll need more time to consider, Lord Karstark. You’re welcome to remain at Winterfell to await my decision if you wish.”

“Alright, alright. Just don’t keep us forever- I’ve a keep to return to, with or without my sister.” he grumbled, spooning up a great heap of peas. 

Sansa excused herself and stood up, unwilling to meet Jon’s eyes. She exited the hall quickly and sent a servant girl to fetch Eva before heading back to her chambers. 

As soon as she had shut the heavy doors to her room, she sat dejectedly on the bed with her face in her hands. 

_Finally Jon and I have admitted our feeling for one another, only to have everything snatched away._ She thought dismally. _What’s wrong with me? Why have I fallen in love with my own kin?_

An unchecked tear rolled its way down Sansa’s cheek. She tried to wipe it away immediately as the door opened to emit Eva, but the handmaiden sensed her distress anyhow. Inwardly Sansa was glad. She had summoned Eva subconsciously, seeking someone to listen, perhaps.

“What’s the matter, m’lady?” Eva asked gently. She made her way over and started to sit beside Sansa on the bed but paused for approval- with a nod of permission she flopped down at her lady’s side. 

“Last night wears on me, is all.” Sansa sobbed quietly.

Eva cocked her head to one side. “I’d wager it’s more than that.”

Sansa looked up at her weakly, feeling defenseless. “If I tell, you must swear never to speak of it to anyone.”

“I swear on my own life.” Eva muttered sincerely, her eyes wide with curiosity. 

Sansa hesitated, then spoke. “I’ve done something terrible.” she uttered shakily. 

“So have many, many people my lady.”

“I’ve fallen in love with the wrong person.” Sansa admitted, her tears now drying on her face. 

Eva raised an eyebrow and nodded for her to continue. 

“My brother.” she murmured quietly. 

Eva regarded her without reaction.

“Why aren’t you surprised?” Sansa asked her quickly.

“I suppose I was expecting worse and...your feelings are understandable.” Eva answered. “His grace is handsome and honourable, and he is the first man you’ve been with in a long while who’s made you feel safe.” 

“That doesn’t condone for us a love which disgraces the gods.” Sansa muttered bitterly.

Eva appeared pleased and scooched closer to her. “He feels the same way, then?” she exclaimed excitedly, as though they were discussing a cheery childhood infatuation. 

Sansa nodded but raised an eyebrow at Eva, who calmed herself and placed a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“We cannot help who we love, m’lady.” she proclaimed coolly, taking her advice-giving quite seriously once more. “I also know that in life, especially one as uncertain as this one we’re living, we should take what we are given and make the best of it, lest it slip away.”

Sansa stared back at Eva, aghast. “Are you suggesting that I ignore all consequence and pursue Jon?” 

“Well, I’m not dismissing that idea…” Eva giggled. “Many a maiden, myself included, would betray everything and everyone for a chance at one night with his grace, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Sansa smiled a little despite herself. Where Eva’s captivation with Jon might normally have awakened her resentment, at the moment she found the prospect strangely reassuring. _There’s a difference between having ideas and fantasies and actually acting upon them._ She told herself hopefully. _And I’m not alone in having ideas._

“How about we get your mind off things.” Eva suggested helpfully. “We’ve just received a wonderful shipment of fabrics from White Harbour; we could spread them out in the Great Hall and fashion you an exquisite gown. The Hall has likely emptied by now.”

“Alright.” Sansa agreed gratefully. “Fetch my needlework kit.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“And Eva?”

“Yes?”

“You won’t...tell anyone?” Sansa prodded quietly, meeting Eva’s gaze firmly. 

The handmaiden shook her head. “Not a soul.”

Sansa nodded and watched her leave the chamber. _I’ve gambled and spilled my secret._ she thought dangerously. _I pray Eva is as loyal as she seems._

* * *

The afternoon sun had risen into the sky as Sansa and Eva embroidered a new dress of light blue and silver fabric in the Great Hall. There was no sign of Jon, Arya, the Karstarks, or anyone else for that matter. They had all left to attend business elsewhere, apparently. 

“You’ll look a proper Northern ice queen once this dress is finished.” Eva mused as she helped stitch fine white thread details onto the gown’s arm. 

“I should hope so.” Sansa muttered smugly with a smile. “Let’s make this a gown to inspire fear and envy in all my subjects.” she chuffed playfully. 

“Have you reverted to a proper fancy princess again then?” Arya teased from across the Hall, announcing her entrance with a rather loud slam of the door. “Looks like something Cersei would wear…” she added upon coming closer as she inspected the gown.

“Take that back.” Sansa snapped, not as light-heartedly as intended. 

“I’m only kidding.” Arya mumbled with a sly grin. She sat down beside her sister, such that Sansa could see that her cheeks were flushed with cold and that her face was splattered with mud. 

Sansa rolled her eyes. “What have you been up to that’s put you in such a good mood? Did you make up with Jon?”

Arya nodded with satisfaction, watching Sansa stitch the gown’s hem. “He apologized and let me whack him very hard with a wooden sword.” she admitted happily. “Several times, in fact.”

Sansa snorted and smiled. “Is that all?”

“I also proved him wrong by besting him _and_ Lady Alys in duels.”

Sansa smiled genuinely and cast Arya a mischievous look. “Nicely done.”

“I take it you don’t like her either, then.”

From across the table, Eva gave Sansa a knowing smile. 

“I don’t care for her, and I certainly don’t want Jon to marry her.” Sansa conceded.

Arya shrugged. “She’s really not terrible...she’s certainly no prissy southern sun-beater, as Tormund would say, and she fights quite well, but I don’t like how she’s walked in here like it’s all going to be hers.” 

Sansa frowned and completed a few rather aggressive stitches. “Are they still at it then? With the dueling?” she quipped quickly, trying to hide her displeasure. 

“Aye, I think they’re still out in the courtyard.” Arya noted. 

Impulsively, Sansa put down her needlework and stood up. “Eva, please put this away. We’ll finish later.”

“Where are you going?” Arya called out bewilderedly. 

“To see for myself.” Sansa muttered, leaving the Great Hall.

She walked out toward the courtyard purposefully, heading for the sound of singing steel. There was a hand’s width of fresh snow blanketing the ground, and the sky was a light oyster grey fading to a dull steel tone as it stretched closer to the horizon. Wispy puffs of clouds hung dully in the windless sky, lending a lacklustre appearance to the tableau. 

Soldiers-in-training maneuvered around the open space, fighting with wooden swords or else completing various chores or exercises. The Karstark knights sipped ale under the stable roof with Tormund and Davos, watching the duel that took place at the centre of it all.

Jon and Lady Alys were fighting with steel amidst the soldiers, completely absorbed in their own match and paying the others no attention. Sansa noticed that Jon was not using Longclaw, but a rather lighter sword in its place. Alys appeared to be brandishing her weapon madly, her hair flying about savagely in a fluid red corona. Neither fighter was wearing any armour; Alys had thrown hers aside and was instead fighting in her leathers to match Jon’s apparel. 

Sansa watched in numb silence for a long while, drawing her long cloak tightly around herself against the cold. Eventually Jon executed a complicated twist of his sword and managed to knock Alys’ weapon from her hand, such that he could proceed to hold his sword to her throat. The extended time for which he held his weapon up, staring straight at her, before she yielded and he let his sword arm drop made Sansa’s blood boil. _Alys is stealing his attentions with swordplay._ She mused angrily. _But two can play that game._

Sansa marched up to the pair of them, who were breathing heavily from the fight, and cleared her throat languidly. “Quite a duel.” She decreed flatly, causing Alys and Jon to turn her way. Jon opened his mouth to say something, but Lady Alys was quicker. 

“Lady Sansa! Are you feeling better?” she chimed. “You fled so quickly after the meal earlier…”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Sansa seethed, eyeing Alys hotly. Addressing Jon, she noted “That was an interesting move you used to win.”

“I’ve never known you to be interested in swordplay.” Jon observed, a smile detectable at the corners of his mouth. 

Sansa gazed back at him, recalling her conversations with Eva- both the earlier one on the ramparts and today’s confessions in her chambers.

“I suppose I’ve never had access to any sort of teacher, aside from Ser Rodrik.” She finished thoughtfully. “Could you show me something? Right now?” she added, finding Jon’s dark eyes. “Perhaps just the basics?”

Jon appeared thoroughly shocked, but shrugged. “I, I...suppose.” He stuttered. “Are you sure you want to handle a sword?”

Sansa nodded and dropped her cloak into the snow. Underneath she was wearing an old rough-spun wool dress. Not exactly proper swordplay attire, but not a gown she was worried about spoiling, at least. 

She stepped forward and Jon presented her hesitantly with his sword. “It’s blunt but still dangerous, so be careful. Hold it like this.” He muttered, taking Sansa’s fingers gently and curving them into the proper positions on the sword’s handle. She felt her flesh tingle at his touch.

“It’s heavier than I would have thought.” She noted immediately as she lifted the sword, the first time she had ever done so in her lifetime. 

Jon smiled understatedly at her, his dark eyes soft and kind. “It gets lighter with practice, I promise.”

Alys strutted over with a condescending grin. “Want to trade in your needlework yet?” she teased with a fraudulent smile. “Nothing beats the feeling of good steel in your hands.”

Sansa shot her a forced smile. “We’ll have to see.” She mused, getting used to the weight of the sword in her palm. “How do I stand?” She asked, glancing at Jon.

“Space your legs like this.” Jon suggested, standing right beside her such that his breath tickled the back of her neck. “Angle this foot forward, this one slightly outward.” he added.

Jon pressed into her now, such that she could feel him against the length of her body, in a way that sent Sansa’s heart thundering and left her craving more- more closeness, more mingled breath, more of Jon’s touch. 

He told her to bend her knees, to raise her chest, to stay relaxed. He was patient and meticulous, an excellent teacher. 

Alys watched blankly from a few strides away, her arms crossed. Every so often she offered a small criticism or suggestion. Internally, Sansa cheered triumphantly as Jon manipulated her body into an appropriate fighting stance. Externally, she maintained composure and presented a convincing image. _Just a brother teaching his sister how to fight._ Sansa told herself.

Once Jon was satisfied with Sansa’s stance he stood in front of her and took a careful hold of her sword tip. He demonstrated a few simple motions and then had her try them out on a stationary Lady Alys.

After several attempts Sansa was able to successfully disarm her completely immobile opponent, causing Jon to smile heartily. 

“You’re really getting the hang of it.” He exclaimed, catching Sansa’s eye affectionately. “The key is to concentrate- a sharp mind is just as important as a sharp sword.”

Suddenly Sansa froze, her thoughts reeling. _Key. Sharp._ She reflected, the words connecting in her mind’s eye. The image of her father sharpening Ice below the great Weirwood tree swam before her eyes once more. The memory extended, providing Sansa with a long-awaited epiphany. _The key to the locked caverns- I know where to find it._ She realized, her heart pounding in her ears. 

“I think I’ve had enough for now.” She stammered quickly, nearly dropping her sword. Sansa marched past Jon, pausing long enough at his side to whisper at him quickly. 

“ _Meet me in the Godswood._ ” she breathed quietly to him, scarcely louder than the nonexistent wind. Her exhalation twisted and curled in the frosty air, weaving its way upward to join the clouds.


	11. Waiting And Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old clues yield new answers. Sansa and Jon sneak around. Arya offers some unwanted advice.

“How did you get away from Lady Alys?” Sansa called tentatively as Jon marched across the Godswood to meet her, now wrapped in his heavy fur cloak. 

“I told her I was going to pray.” he admitted sheepishly. 

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Anyone who knows you properly would be skeptical of that story.”

“Then I suppose Lady Alys doesn’t know me well yet.” Jon mused, noticing that Sansa’s face fell as he spoke. He let his face grow solemn. “I’m sorry for how things ended in the solar earlier. I promise not to make a rash decision, but I don’t know what I can do about it all...” 

Sansa looked back at him unhappily, then shook her head. “Worry about that later- we’ve got something important to do.” She muttered, turning to stride toward the Weirwood tree such that her cloak fanned out regally behind her. 

Jon followed curiously, his snowy footprints overlapping Sansa’s smaller ones. 

She led him to the base of the tree, where the familiar etched face greeted them from the trunk, producing sombre red tear streaks of sap as it regarded them sadly. Jon reflected once again how strange his current situation was as he vividly recalled having stood before a similar tree as he swore his Night’s Watch vows. 

Sansa crouched at the tree’s roots and began feeling around at ground level; she appeared to be digging through the snow and pressing her hands into the many holes and crevices produced by the tree’s ivory roots.   
“What are you doing?” Jon asked bewilderedly as he observed her odd behaviour. 

“The key to the caverns, Jon.” Sansa exclaimed excitedly, the pace of her search increasing.”I think I know where to find it.” 

Jon continued to stare at her dumbfoundedly. “What makes you think it’s in the roots of a tree?”

Sansa sighed in exasperation and turned to face him, her bare hands dirty, raw and red with cold. “It’s something father used to say- _the key to Northern survival lies with the water, the ground, the animals, and the trees._ ” She recited, gesturing to the solidly frozen Godswood pond, the ground on which she sat, the silent forest behind, and the weirwood tree, in turn. 

“He said that all the time…” Jon agreed doubtfully, “but that doesn’t guarantee it meant anything more than the usual cryptic Stark advice we received all the time as children…it always felt as though father and maester Luwin had secret agendas...”

Sansa stared up at him insistently. “But what if this one truly was a hint! What you said to me earlier about the ‘key being sharp’ or what not reminded me of father sharpening Ice beneath this tree, and then I thought of his words. It could be he was leading us to the key all along, every time he said it…” Sansa concluded, turning to resume her search of the root system.

Jon crouched at her side. “But why wouldn’t he have just told us? Why didn’t anyone tell us about the caverns? Maester Luwin was always mentioning the water and the hot springs but no one ever bothered to tell us how to find it.” he finished, his face knitting in confusion. 

Sansa shrugged. “I suppose neither of us was ever intended to rule Winterfell, and we were both too young in past winters to be bothered with such matters.” 

Jon shut his mouth and helped Sansa to search the base of the silver tree. _Could be she’s right...the whole thing is almost crazy enough to be true._ Jon thought bewilderedly. 

He reached into a particularly debris-laden aperture beneath the centre of the trunk, and exhaled sharply as his hand hit an obstacle. He felt around blindly, trying to determine what he was touching. The object seemed flat-sided and hard, like a box. It was scarcely larger than Jon’s palm, and very light to lift. He pulled it gingerly from the depths of the tree and brought it into the light.

Sansa gasped as she realized what he had unearthed. Curiosity and elation lit up her features. She immediately bent in closer for a better look. “ _I knew it._ ” she whispered eagerly. 

The rectangular object was a narrow wooden chest of oak or maple, engraved with nothing but a simple direwolf crest on its front. 

With great thrill Jon noticed that tiny box had no lock, and lifted its lid with ease. Inside lay an ancient rusty key, half-obscured by shadow. 

“I really hope that this is what we think it is.” Jon breathed. 

“Only one way to find out.” Sansa mused, casting her icy cerulean eyes on Jon.   
Jon stood up and offered Sansa his hand. She took it ardently, her motions already hungrier under the excitement of imminent discovery.

* * *

Arya had grown excellent at watching. She had the patience of a crouching lion, and the effortless camouflage of a predatory bird. She could wait and watch for hours, entirely satisfied by immobility and her own thoughts, just to see things properly. 

That was exactly what she had been doing last night in the bell tower before the wights attacked- attempting to see Winterfell in its entirety, with no distractions, just as she had as a child. She had sat alone on the frigid stone, scanning the castle grounds and the moor beyond, with naught but starlight to feed her eyes. The moon had been hiding, after all.

Only then had Arya begun to feel anchored in her home once more; Winterfell was not the same as she had left it. She needed a broad view to feel familiar, as if distance might disguise the truth. The castle was eerier...more scarred. _Just the same as Sansa, Jon, and I._ She had reflected. _Only time might frighten off the new ghosts and demons which permeate Winterfell’s halls._

Time, which was the guilty party in everything anyhow. So much of it had passed- Sansa was no longer a girl lost in fantasies and delusions, but a woman grown with battle scars of her own. And Jon had not remained merely her boyish older brother; rather he had flourished into a king whose attentions no longer belonged solely to Arya. 

She felt her siblings had grown visibly different in several aspects...but most notably in their interactions with each other. 

_Something is up with them- and I’m going to discover what it is._ Arya vowed solemnly. 

This vow was what brought her to the edges of the Godswood, trailing after an unsuspecting Jon, remaining hidden in shadow. She perched herself behind a copse of trees with a clear view of the weirwood tree and stilled herself, listening and watching keenly. 

She heard Sansa and Jon discuss a key, secret-keeping, and the ruling of Winterfell. She watched raptly as Jon drew something out from the core of the weirwood, and craned for a better angle as he opened it. The pair of them were conversing quickly- almost excitedly- in hushed tones. Jon helped Sansa up and the pair strode off briskly, re-entering to the castle. 

Arya followed without hesitation, keeping deftly hidden and adeptly silent. Her siblings traversed the corridors hurriedly, glancing over their shoulders with nearly every passing breath. 

_They couldn’t be more paranoid if they tried._ Arya noted, rolling her eyes. 

Jon and Sansa’s path took Arya quickly down to the crypts. She descended the steep stony steps into the darkness. She saw Jon light a lantern ahead, and laboriously avoided its far-reaching light, still managing to trail her quarry unseen. 

Her siblings marched purposefully past the statues of Lyanna Stark, Rickard Stark, Brandon Stark, and others. Sansa halted at the end of the long catacomb, her russet hair catching the candlelight splendidly. Jon drew up beside her and the pair paused in front of a very large, very old doorway.

Arya stifled a gasp as Jon passed swiftly into the shadow passageway, followed immediately by Sansa. The pair seemed to be heading intentionally deeper into Winterfell’s depths. Arya waited a moment until the lantern’s light had faded before sliding forward to glance down into the shadowy stair, and determined that the darkness was too pressing and the stairs much too steep to continue without illumination, even for one skilled in navigating blind. The light from Jon’s lantern had already vanished, as if swallowed by the mysterious stairway’s gloom. 

Arya doubled back, feeling along the walls of the crypt for a lantern or torch. However, it seemed Jon had found the only one for a long while- it was quite a walk before she located another. Once she found her light source- a very dusty old torch- she turned back toward the strange stair, intending wholeheartedly to continue tracing Jon and Sansa’s steps.

* * *

Sansa saw Jon halt immediately in front of her as he arrived at the iron gate. They had made the long descent into the caverns much more rapidly than before, both extremely eager to test the obscure key Jon had pulled out from under the weirwood. 

Sansa noted a gust of warm air on her cheeks from within the caves as she passed the small wooden box to Jon and held the lantern aloft so he might see. The enticing caverns seemed to beckon with warm breath, promising wonder and discovery.

Jon fumbled with the lock a moment, wriggling the key gently in hopes of easing the withered mechanism open, and let out an exalted gasp as the iron bolt clicked, allowing the gate to swing forward. 

Painstakingly Jon replaced the archaic key in its container and took the lantern from Sansa before stepping into the cave tunnel. 

Sansa trailed after him slowly, awed by the sheer circumstance that had enabled this moment.

_No one has passed through this gate in at least fifteen years._ She considered wondrously. 

Jon held the lantern aloft to light their way and proceeded onward through the tunnel. As they shifted further into the caverns the sound of rushing water echoed increasingly loudly as expected. After many paces the passage began to bend slightly left in a gentle curve before widening gradually, until it opened into a full chamber. The aquatic noises reached an apex here, emitting a constant flow and gurgle that bounced off the walls to produce a soothing symphony of sound. 

Sansa stood beside Jon and tried to make out the space in the weak lantern light. Jon noticed that the walls of the chamber were studded with makeshift torches, and he proceeded to light each one, until the cavern was bathed in a rosy candlelit glow. 

An underground river steaming with warmth flowed from a hole in one end of the cave to a crevice in the other, streaming by unendingly. Some of the water forked off into a sizeable basin which was emitting enticing wisps of steam. Above the stone walls soared, cathedral-like, at least to the height of the Great Hall. 

Openmouthed at Sansa’s side, Jon exclaimed quietly. “We’ve found it.” 

Sansa smiled and started to stride over to the meandering water, but was quickly sidetracked as she noted something silver gleaming from a half-buried position in the cavern wall. She went closer to steal a better look. 

“What’s this?” she mused softly, reaching out to place her fingers on the silver protrusion. The rock around it was unstable and in pieces such that she could crumble it away with a few careful swipes. 

Jon appeared at her side. “Not another box...” He muttered exasperatedly as Sansa drew the object from the wall, wrenching it free with a lurch. 

She held the item in her hands and smiled as she regarded it. _Indeed, it is a box._ She thought giddily. However, Sansa’s heart sank as she observed that this chest- one made purely of silver and etched with many elaborate designs- was firmly locked with a thick dark padlock. 

Jon took the lock delicately in his hands. “It looks like Valyrian Steel.” He noted with surprise, pointing at the characteristic rippled metal as it gleamed in the flickering firelight. “This journey grows stranger and stranger.”

Sansa stared at the box puzzledly. “This one was not exactly hard to find- as if we’re meant to have it.”

Jon regarded her thoughtfully. “Then we should bring it back with us.” 

She nodded in agreement. “Though I don’t know how we’ll open it short of smashing it to pieces.” She added, setting the mysterious silver box down by the tunnel mouth beside the tiny wooden one. “Unless this one’s key _is_ in father’s desk.”

Jon smiled and scanned the room absently, his mind somewhere else.

“What is it?” Sansa quipped calmly.

“It’s very similar to another place I’ve been.” Jon admitted simply, his eyes glassy with reminiscence. 

Sansa watched him for a moment, wondering what he was so caught up on, but decided not to press the matter. She noticed that her hands were caked with dirt, grime, and rock dust, and turned once more toward the water. “Hope this water is as pleasant as it looks.” She muttered offhandedly at Jon. 

Sansa placed a tentative step on the rock adjacent to the steaming pool and found it slick with moisture. She crouched precariously at the edge of the water and tried to lower her hands to the steaming surface, but found an extra finger-length of air between her own fingertips and the water’s surface. 

She strained to reach, keeling slowly forward, eventually lifting a foot to place on a lower stone. However, Sansa’s heart jumped into her mouth as her step slid right off the new foothold, sending her careening forward toward the water.   
With a splash she tumbled into the pool, emitting a shrill shriek for an instant before her head plunged below the water’s surface. 

She threw her arms forward, terrified of hitting the rocky bottom, but found only water. The liquid was pleasantly warm like a bath, but the temperature did nothing to calm Sansa’s panic. She tried in vain to figure out which direction was up, but all she saw was darkness, penetrated occasionally by shafts of orange firelight from above, whichever way that was.

_I can’t drown! Not down here_...she told herself firmly. She thrashed and kicked helplessly but felt no closer to the surface. 

Only as spots began to dance in front of Sansa’s eyes did she feel a pair of strong arms around her midsection, followed instantly by emergence from the water.

She threw her head back with a gasp, sucking in air greedily as she tried to steady her wildly beating heart. 

After a few breaths her eyes refocused on Jon, who was regarding her anxiously a foot away. He appeared not to be moving in the water, as though standing. Cautiously Sansa stopped kicking and allowed her legs sink; she was surprised when they found a smooth stone bottom and she was able to stand, the water only coming up to shoulder level. 

Sansa returned her gaze to Jon, her chest still heaving in the aftermath of severe shock. She realized then that he had somehow shed his shirt, and was standing in the water bare-chested, his torso expanding and contracting with heavy breaths. His curled raven hair was wet and dripping as it shone in the firelight.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked gently, his face etched in concern. 

Sansa nodded, unable to regain proper breath under the influence of his exposed flesh. 

“Not as deep as it seems.” He added with a small smile, wading a step closer to Sansa such that they were less than a foot apart. “The pool, that is.” 

They met each other’s eyes fervently, dark locked on blue. 

Jon took Sansa’s neck very gently, pulling her close to him and pressed his lips to hers. She sighed into him and kissed him back, her hands creeping up his spine to tangle in his silken hair. 

_Never let this moment end._ Sansa pleaded internally as she embraced him, much more deeply, urgently, and meaningfully than the first time. She relished the feel of his toned muscles under her fingers, the way he exhaled responsively as she kissed him with increased vigor. 

“When I suggested that the two of you should rule Winterfell together, this was not what I meant.” A deadpan voice called from the other side of the cavern. 

Jon and Sansa lurched suddenly apart, eyes jumping frantically to the intruder. Sansa observed Arya, sitting on the silver box by the entrance to the chamber.

“How long have you been here?” Sansa stammered, openmouthed. 

“Long enough.”

Jon glanced from Sansa to Arya, apparently unable to speak. 

Sansa’s initial shock morphed into outrage. “I cannot believe you followed us!”

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Are you _really_ that surprised? I’ve known there’s something going on with the pair of you for a while now- it was only a matter of time until I figured out what.” she mused. “No one keeps secrets from me in this castle.”

“You can’t tell anyone.” Jon stated quietly. “It would be disastrous…”

Arya stood up and crossed her arms. “This is already disastrous...you’re both fools if you think no one will ever find out.” She shouted, crossing her arms. “You’re just as bad as the Lannisters…”

Sansa glared back at her with affront. “...We can’t help who we love.” She declared quickly, borrowing Eva’s words. “Besides, we’re only half-siblings…”

“Listen to yourself!” Arya cried. “This is absolutely mad! If you want to keep going around kissing each other and sleeping together then _fine_.” she shouted in exasperation. “I can’t very well stop you, but you might want to think properly about what you’re doing.”

“Since when do you care about what’s proper?” Sansa countered angrily. 

“Since I found out my brother and sister are disgracing the gods and men”

Sansa stared at her bewilderedly. “You don’t care about the gods either!”

Arya’s eyes bore into her sister’s, quite affronted. “I care about the only god that matters. Death.” She declared profoundly. “And he’s coming for both of you if people find out about this. Anyways isn’t Jon supposed to be getting married?”

“That’s not decided yet.” Jon grumbled stoutly. 

Arya glared at him. “The best thing would be for the pair of you to each marry someone else and put this all to rest.”

“It isn’t that easy.” Sansa suggested wistfully. “If you knew anything about love you would understand that.” 

Arya stared back at her coldly. “I’m just trying to help. Someone needs to pull you two back to reality since mother and father cannot.”

The trio stood in silence for a moment, Sansa and Jon still standing in the cavern pool. 

“If you’ve nothing else to say, perhaps one of you would care to explain all this?” Arya added, gesturing at the surrounding cavern. 

“Fine.” Sansa muttered. “Just let us get out of this basin first.”


	12. Beside Us All Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanations are required but avoided. A raven arrives. Sansa is enlightened.

"So when do you two intend on telling the kitchen staff there's an easier way to get water than boiling snow?" Arya questioned brightly as she, Jon, and Sansa walked Winterfell's ground-level halls once more, having just returned from the crypts. "You're not going to put it off so you can have that cave to yourselves, are you?" she added flatly.

"Of course not." Jon retorted quickly, though he met Sansa's eyes for a fleeting instant as he spoke. "I left the gate unlocked, didn't I?"

Arya shrugged. "But no one knows about the caverns yet…and no soul would dare go down that grim staircase without a good reason for doing so."

"I'll go tell the servants this eve after we've supped." Jon conceded hotly, his cheeks burning.

Arya had agreed to keep her mouth shut about he and Sansa, but Jon still suspected that she would not be keen to let the subject drop and that as a result she was bound to slip up eventually. _This mad endeavour can only end badly._ He scolded himself, but every time he doubted his feelings, one glance over at Sansa sent them rushing back in with full force, like a river released of a dam. _Undeniable, potent, treacherous and irrevocable._ He admitted to himself. _That's what my feelings for Sansa are._

The castle was quiet; the only commotion seemed to emanate from the Great Hall, which was the usual centre of proceedings. Jon had deposited the locked silver chest in his chambers earlier, intending fully to attempt to breach it later and uncover its mysterious contents.

The trio arrived at the doors to the Hall and pushed inside, where they were greeted by a tide of questions from all directions.

"Where have you three _been_?" Lady Brienne called, loudest and clearest, from the nearest bench. All formalities seemed to have been forgotten, as though she were interrogating a band of children. "I've been searching the castle for hours without a trace of any of you." She uttered crossly.

"I'm so sorry, Lady Brienne. I needed some time alone with my…siblings." Sansa murmured mutely.

Brienne shook her head. "I swear I turned over all of Winterfell. The gods only know where you've been…"

"Underground. A special place in the crypts." Arya offered blankly.

Brienne regarded them for an instant, open-mouthed, before her gaze softened slightly. "Well, at least you're back. Please let someone know if _all three of you_ plan on disappearing for hours on end again. As the last three Starks your whereabouts are important to many, whether you know it or not." She finished solemnly.

"Your grace!" A familiar voice rang out suddenly, revealed to belong to Lady Alys, who appeared an arm's length from Jon's face in an instant. "We were all very frightened when you weren't out in the Godswood…"

"I'm fine, my la-." He insisted quickly, but before he could even finish Alys had pulled him into an awkward hug.

Jon scarcely moved, remaining rigid as a board in Alys' arms. She hardly seemed to notice, and drew away with a smile, looking pointedly into his eyes. At his left, Jon could feel Sansa's gaze, icy and disapproving as it tore at the Lady Karstark's figure.

Alys was clothed in a shining ebony and white dress stitched with dainty stars and sunbursts- quite unbecoming of her fiery character, but fine-looking nonetheless. Internally, however, Jon could not stray his thoughts from an image of Sansa in her dress at the Tourney, in which she had possessed thrice the beauty and appeal as Alys in her current state. He felt an inappropriate stirring in his depths at the memory…the silver dress, the radiant copper hair, the Stark furs round her shoulders…

At that Jon was yanked back to the present. _We are both Starks, our courtship is impossible._ He self-reminded loathsomely. _Would that I could just marry Sansa, so we might be together always, so that I might have her completely._

Instead, Lady Alys stood before him. An inescapably dutiful alternative. In another path, one in which Jon did not yearn madly for Sansa, he might have loved her, for she was everything he might have wanted…a good strong northern woman with a snappy tongue and fair looks. Not to mention a valuable army as a dowry.

_But this is not another path. This is the only path, and everything I want is Sansa._

However, choice in the matter was not possible; Sansa was not possible.

_I must do my duty as a king, just as I did my duty as a member of the Night's Watch. I must take Alys as a wife to secure an important allegiance for my house, and for the Great War to come. What I shared with Sansa in the cave was a fantasy, too perfect for the real world._

Jon's thoughts sunk into a terrible abyss of dread as he imagined telling her. _She will be heartbroken…would that she could know to what extent this decision will devastate mine own heart as well._

He hardly noticed that Alys had eased him over to the high table, nor that he was now seated in Winterfell's throne. She had sat herself and her brother on Jon's immediate right, to his slight annoyance- a position typically reserved for family. On Jon's left, Sansa appeared wretched as she watched Lady Alys fawn over him unendingly, as though she sensed Jon's inner surrender and the inevitable reveal that was approaching surely as nightfall.

A pair of cup-bearers began circling the tables with jugs of wine, and the kitchen staff appeared through the doors, bearing a heavy platter of roast boar. Jon nearly forgot to thank the kitchen maid who presented him with a healthy plate of scrumptious food, lost as he was in his own turmoil. Eating seemed unimportant at the moment.

_Strange, I sat in a similar position to this one not long ago and experienced guilt as I pondered my feelings for Sansa,_ he reflected, taking a swig of wine. _Now I feel only unquenched desire and loss._

Even Arya appeared strangely grim and quiet as she poked at her food two spots down, as though experiencing some small part of Jon's bitter internal concession.

Suddenly an echoing tapping resounded through the hall, coming from Harald Karstark's goblet. The lord of Karhold stood up, having beaten his silver chalice on the High Table to snatch his audience's attention. The bustling Hall fell silent in response.

"The moment for decision-making arrives. I'll wait no longer." Lord Karstark hooted, his face cheery and flushed from wine. "King Jon, will you be taking my sister, the fair Lady Alys as your-"

He was cut off sharply by the slamming of a door as maester Jervin came bounding in, waving a small piece of parchment frantically.

"Urgent raven, your grace. From Last Hearth." The young master cried breathlessly, presenting the letter hastily to Jon at the High Table.

Lord Karstark frowned and sat down, leaning back in his chair and taking a large swig of wine.

Jon unfolded the paper and scanned the words rapidly. The script was messy and broken up, as though having been scratched out in great haste.

"It's from Lord Umber." Jon muttered in reply to Sansa's questioning gaze. "Last Hearth is under siege…from wights." He called darkly, his eyes not leaving the parchment. "They're begging us for help."

The occupants of the Great Hall blinked up at Jon in astonishment. He stared back at them, in turn, his eyes eventually finding Lord Karstark.

"Will you make good on your oath to House Stark now, my lord?" Jon pressed urgently.

Lord Harald grumbled. "Aye, I suppose so. House Karstark will ride with you to Last Hearth if you so command it, your grace."

"I do command it. The North must stand together." Jon stated firmly, grateful that lord Karstark was not pressing the marriage proposal amidst the current situation. "Maester Jervin, please dispatch a raven immediately to Karhold and have the Karstark army ride for Last Hearth."

"Certainly, your grace." The master replied with a nod, leaving the hall briskly.

From his seat at a nearby bench Davos cleared his throat. "Your grace, we must also leave as soon as possible if we are to reach Last Hearth in time to do any good."

"I agree, Ser Davos. Ready the soldiers and the horses. We march North when the moon breaches the treetops of the Wolfswood." Jon declared solemnly. "We haven't a moment to waste."

* * *

Sansa cornered Jon in the armoury, where he was helping to ready the weapons.

"It pains me to think about you leaving." She called to him softly, causing him to turn around. "You're going to ride off into the darkness and leave me behind to worry." She muttered. "It'll be a week, at best, before you return."

_Provided you return at all._ Her thoughts added with a grim lurch of terror. _Not to mention that Lady Alys will have you all to herself for the entire journey- it'll be a miracle if you do not return engaged to be wed._

Jon glanced back at Sansa mournfully as he sheathed a pair of daggers. "I don't have a choice, Sansa. If we don't try to stop the wights now they will arrive at Winterfell's doors sooner than either of us can imagine. I have a duty to the North"

"I suppose there's no point in asking if I can come with you."

Jon shook his head slowly. "It's much too dangerous; besides, someone has to watch over Winterfell."

"What about Arya?" Sansa asked quickly.

"It has to be you." Jon countered immediately. "Arya is too young and…unpredictable."

Sansa came to Jon's side and bore her eyes into his fiercely. "Promise you'll come back to me." She whispered softly.

Jon took her hand gingerly in his own. "I promise." He vowed sincerely, his eyes still locked on Sansa's. He exhaled sadly, his features etched with despair. "I wish more than anything that I could kiss you right now." He added quietly.

Sansa smiled grimly. "If only we weren't in the crowded armoury, surrounded by your soldiers."

"If only." Jon echoed. He stroked his finger gently over Sansa's hand before releasing it.

She stepped backwards, still refusing to take her eyes from him. "Ride safely." She called wistfully, before turning to exit the armoury. She prayed that none of the soldiers would notice the tears welling in her eyes.

* * *

Half an hour later Sansa stood on Winterfell's battlements with Arya, watching the caravan of Stark soldiers trail off to the North, nearly concealed by the darkness. Thankfully a sliver of moon was present this eve, though it did little to quell the pressing blackness of the night.

Sansa had convinced a begrudging Brienne to accompany the party to help with the fight and, to a certain extent, protect Jon without him knowing it. Tormund and the wildlings as well as nearly all of the recently rejuvenated Stark army had left as well, leaving only Sansa, Arya, Ser Davos, the women, the children, the infirm, and the elderly to man Winterfell. The castle had already slipped into a deadening silence.

"I've thought about it some," Arya chided suddenly as they watched the army disappear, "and decided that I don't mind you and Jon."

Sansa looked at her puzzledly.

Arya glanced back. "What I mean is, I know it's wrong, but I also know that you make each other happy, and I think that's more important." She finished thoughtfully. "It'd be nice to have you both in the same place."

"Thank you…for saying that." Sansa answered slowly. "But we both know it can't happen."

"Why not?" Arya retorted, raising an eyebrow. "The Targaryens did it all the time."

"But we aren't the Targaryens, and there's no saying how the North would react…to something like that." Sansa trailed off weakly.

"I suppose." Arya mused glumly.

Sansa glanced upward as she felt snowflakes tickle her face. "We should get inside. Waiting out here won't make them return faster."

Arya nodded and together the two returned to the Great Hall. Eva and the other maids had gathered by the hearth, sipping cups of steaming beverages and chattering mutedly.

At Sansa's side, Arya shook her head. "No way I'm spending my evening discussing gossip. I'm going to go find some boy to practice my swordplay on- I'll be out in the yard if you need me." She told Sansa quietly, turning on her heels and redirecting to head back outside.

"But you've just come back in, and it's much too cold and dark!" Sansa called at her indignantly, though her sister either did not react, or did not hear, for she exited the hall anyhow.

"My lady! Would you care to join us?" Eva called cheerfully from her spot by the fire. "We have some tea, if you're interested- it's not fancy, but it will warm you up nonetheless."

"Thank you, Eva. I would." Sansa answered simply. She sat down at a stool in the circle and accepted a hot mug of tea gratefully. She sipped her tea quietly, listening contentedly as the other women lamented trivial problems and chronicled the behind-the-scenes events at Winterfell. One of the cooks' mothers had passed, leaving behind a strangely valuable inheritance. A handmaiden had fallen desperately in love with the new maester, to her own great dismay. The farrier's wife had birthed twins.

_Sometimes I forget that all these smallfolk Jon is supposed to be ruling have entire lives of their own._ Sansa admitted guiltily. She found she enjoyed thinking about others' lives, for once.

After some time, she was jolted in surprise by a quick tap on her shoulder. "Seven pardons, m'lady." A young male voice stammered from behind. "I was mannin' the East Gate when an old woman from the Winter Village came knocking. She's insistin' on seeing you."

Sansa turned to regard a young man, nearly still a boy, donning the outfit of a Stark soldier. _I suppose green boys and old men are all Jon's left us with to defend the castle._ Sansa mused worriedly.

"Did this woman give you her name?" She replied flatly, deciding to err on the side of caution.

"No, m'lady. She's carryin' a large roll of fabric, looks like. Says it's for you."

Sansa exhaled sharply as she recalled her trip into the Winter Village several weeks ago. "Of course- the tapestry!" She breathed. "Please, take me to see her." She added quickly, standing to follow the young guard. The maids watched her go curiously, their eyes following Sansa out the door.

She arrived at the East Gate moments later, and instructed the soldiers to admit the old woman. Slowly Winterfell's enormous wooden doors slid open, just wide enough for the slight old lady to squeeze inside with her large delivery.

The old woman smiled at Sansa with a toothless grin. "M'lady." She wheezed happily. "I've done as ye' asked…'ere's a bigger one." She declared, presenting the tapestry to Sansa proudly. "T'wasn't easy, findin' th'materials."

Sansa took the roll of fabric graciously. "Thank you very much for your hard work." she commended. She turned to the nearest soldier, a wizened old man with a scruffy grey beard. "Please see that this woman is given twenty silver stags for her efforts."

The soldier nodded and marched off to Winterfell's rather meagre treasury.

"You're too kind, m'lady. Yer' thanks is all I need."

"I insist." Sansa pressed warmly. She bid the old woman a good night and returned to the Great Hall with the tapestry, her insides warm and her worries lessened.

Once inside she laid the new tapestry out on one of the long tables for a better look, and the maids immediately rushed over to gush over the creation.

It was exquisite work, very similar to the small piece Sansa had received weeks ago. However, this scaled up version was more detailed and seemed to be crafted of finer thread. She and Jon were depicted regally in silver crowns and direwolf cloaks.

"I'd like to hang it there." Sansa declared, gesturing to the blank wall behind the High Table.

"I'll fetch a couple of men to see it done, m'lady." One of the maids suggested happily.

Sansa nodded. _Let Lady Alys return to this._ She thought deviously as she regarded the meticulous hanging with pleasure.

* * *

Six excruciating days of boredom and worrying then proceeded to grip Winterfell. Sansa received no word from Jon regarding the status of his expedition to Last Hearth, so she was left to ponder everything, unable to find any pursuits which would keep her mind fully occupied.

Nightmares returned to Sansa's evenings as she lay alone in her chambers. She dreamed of beheadings, dogs, and death. Of drowning, of being the last person in the world, of falling from great heights. Sometimes she cradled Jon or Arya's dead body in her arms. Men chased her with horrible weapons and women commanded them to do so. A faceless terror chased her through the nights whispering _I'm part of you. I'm part of you._ over and over again. Inevitably once she finally did manage to drift off she would proceed to wake up screaming or crying, inconsolable without Jon present to offer comfort.

She passed through each day exhausted and in a dream-like state, dealing with smallfolk and completing mundane tasks. No matter what she set out to accomplish her thoughts always remained with Jon.

Eva and Arya tried exhaustively to redirect Sansa's attentions, but both knew the full extent of what she was suffering with and found themselves unable to offer much help.

Only on the morning of the tenth day after Jon and the army had left Winterfell did something substantial finally occur- something which would pull Sansa from drowning in her current reality.

She and Arya walked up to the bell tower, just as they had done for three of the previous mornings, to scan the horizon for the army's return. Just as had been the case the last three times, the moor was empty of a large returning force. However, there was still something of note to be seen.

Sansa scanned the treeline and caught a hint of movement. She called her sister over to take a look, and Arya's deft eyes confirmed. There was a lone horse carrying two riders approaching from the Wolfswood.

"Perhaps it's just a pair of wildlings returning from hunting." Sansa suggested plainly.

"I don't think so- nearly all of the wildlings went North with Jon, even the women." Arya reminded her thoughtfully. "Plus, look at the way the second rider is sitting…"

Sansa squinted in an attempt to see more clearly. "It couldn't be…" she breathed as the horse came closer, nearly within identifiable range.

Arya gasped and pulled Sansa's arm, leading her back down the stairs swiftly and dragging her toward the Hunter's Gate on the western side of the castle facing the Wolfswood.

"Could it really be him?" Sansa exclaimed as she and Arya hurried along.

"Looks like it!" Arya cried breathlessly. "I worried that he was dead and that we would never see him again!"

"Don't get too excited…we could be wrong. Really what are the odds that it's him?" Sansa trailed off as they arrived in the courtyard. The smaller gate facing the Wolfswood was only manned by two guards at present. Sansa and Arya ran up on to the ramparts to greet the two older men and willed them to open the gate.

"We've been instructed not ter' open this gate by the king 'imself until the fighters 'ave returned." One of them stammered in reply.

Sansa glared at him unhappily. "Not even for your liege ladies?"

The other guard shot his partner a testing look. "You sure, Mick? The ladies are in charge…"

"Don't you see the rider out there? We need to see who it is!" Arya pleaded irritably.

The round-bellied guard Mick groaned and rolled his eyes. "Let 'im come to the gates 'imself first an' if you still wants to let 'im inside we'll let 'im in." he conceded gruffly.

"Fine." Sansa muttered dryly, shutting her eyes in exasperation. She and Arya waked back down to stand before the gates and waited in great trepidation for the horse and riders to approach. _If it is who we think, they will most certainly be headed for this gate_ …Sansa thought confidently.

Long seconds passed, until finally the sound of hoofbeats became audible from beyond the thick wooden doors.

"Who goes there?" One of the guards called down at the arrival.

"I is I." A confident male voice hollered. "Brandon Stark of Winterfell. Open the gates."

Sansa and Arya exchanged a wondrous glance. Sansa found her hands shaking. From up on the ramparts, the guards glanced at her for approval. Weightily she nodded, almost holding her breath in anticipation.

Slowly the guards opened the doors, leaving Sansa and Arya to crane for a view of the people on the other side. Painstakingly the opening widened, revealing a large black horse and two riders astride. One was a vaguely familiar-looking girl with dark curly hair; the other was a much-matured form of a face Sansa would know anywhere. Her hands flew to her mouth and she regarded Bran, her long-lost little brother.

Arya was open-mouthed at her side. "Is that really you, Bran?" she uttered dumbfoundedly, her voice choked with amazement.

"It's really me." Bran replied with a weak laugh, his speech strangled by emotion.

Sansa bounded forward to help him off of the horse, after which he clung to her steadfastly and hugged her fiercely. She felt unchecked tears flow down her cheeks.

"They told me you were dead." Sansa sobbed happily as she hugged him. "When I was trapped in King's Landing."

She stumbled slightly as Arya leapt forward to join the hug, wrapping her arms around them both.

"How did the two of you get back?" Bran asked pointedly. "I heard that Jon had retaken Winterfell- I didn't know you'd both found your way back as well." He added delightedly.

"It's a very, very long story." Sansa muttered, still hugging him tightly.

"Very, very, _very_ long." Arya added. After a heartbeat she drew back and regarded Bran strangely. "You're taller than me now." She muttered, feigning apprehension.

"Suppose I would be, if my legs still worked." Bran declared, his voice becoming suddenly bleak.

Sansa regarded him sadly for a moment, before realizing that his female travelling companion was still on the horse, watching them reunite awkwardly. Eager to change the subject anyhow, she gestured up at the curly-haired girl. "Who is this you've arrived with?"

Bran brightened considerably. "This is Meera Reed. She's the only reason I've made it back." He announced enthusiastically. "Meera, these are my sisters, Arya and Sansa."

Arya looked up at her in newfound comprehension. "I remember you! You've visited Winterfell before, with your father and your brother." She recalled fondly.

Meera's face saddened and Arya appeared shocked. "Oh- I'm sorry…did I-"

She shook her head. "Don't be. It's not your fault. My brother passed not long ago, is all."

"I'm so sorry." Arya answered hollowly. "I remember him as well- he was very kind. You and your brother were the only visiting noble children who ever paid me and Jon any attention at feasts."

Meera looked back at her gratefully. "We don't need to dwell on sadness and grief- I don't want to take away from Bran's return home."

Bran looked back at her kindly, before turning his eyes brightly to Sansa and Arya. "Is Rickon here?"

Sansa felt as though the ground had been yanked out from under her. She opened her mouth but could not speak.

Arya was able to break the long silence with a sad utterance. "Rickon is dead." She murmured sorrowfully. She met Bran's eyes sincerely as she spoke the harrowing words.

Bran gazed back at her in shock and horror as comprehension spread through his face. "How?" he asked quietly.

"He was killed by Ramsay Bolton."

Bran dropped his head sadly. "He was always too innocent and good to survive alongside the evil in this world." He choked on pensively. "It was an unreachable hope to think I might see him again."

Meera dismounted the horse and placed a gentle hand on Bran's shoulder. "You will see Rickon and all of your loved ones who have left you behind when you join the gods. Just as I will see my own brother."

They stood in silence for a moment, until Bran seemed to recall something important and steeled himself to share, wiping away his tears and raising his eyes to meet Sansa's.

"Where's Jon? There is something extremely important that I must tell him…"

"He's been away for several days…" Sansa responded dejectedly. Off fighting wights at Last Hearth. But he should be returning any day now."

"Come inside and we'll tell you everything." Arya added.

* * *

Arya and Sansa set Bran up in his old bedroom before providing him with a shortened summary of all that had happened since they had last been together; it was a briefing similar in nature to that they had shared with Jon when Arya had returned. Afterward they listened to his tales from beyond the wall, scarcely able to believe his accounts of fighting white walkers, warging in and out of creatures, and of the terrible demise of Summer and Hodor.

Eventually, Bran began to describe training with the Three-Eyed-Raven, whom Sansa and Arya were surprised to learn was an ancient man in a tree.

"I saw pieces." Bran admitted steadily. "Of the past, the present, and the future."

Arya appeared very doubtful. "How can you know for sure?"

"I just know. You have to trust me."

Arya shrugged and Sansa nodded at him to continue.

"One of the pieces I saw was of father, when he was younger. Fighting to get inside the Tower of Joy in Dorne."

Sansa and Arya watched him with rapt attention.

Bran looked at them firmly. "When he entered Aunt Lyanna was inside. She was dying."

"Lyanna as in the one Prince Rhaegar kidnapped?" Sansa asked quickly, trying to recall the fine details of her childhood history lessons. "And why is that significant?"

"Just keep listening. She wasn't kidnapped, I don't think." Bran muttered. "I don't know for sure. I only know that at this moment she had just given birth to Rhaegar's son."

"Aunt Lyanna had a child?" Arya quipped wondrously. "Father never told us."

Bran nodded, his expression strange and unreadable.

Sansa's heart began to beat inexplicably quickly. "What became of her son?" she insisted raptly, leaning forward in her seat. Her mind was working swiftly, already forcing forward a wild thought…

Bran sat up and stared into Sansa's eyes profoundly, as if hesitant to speak the words, which he knew would invite powerful and unpredictable consequences. He took a deep breath. "He has been beside us all along. It's Jon- he's not the bastard of Ned Stark, but the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen."


	13. Survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes an impulsive decision. Ghost greets an old friend. Jon reluctantly plays a part in a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a loooooong time to write the dialogue for this chapter, (and there's a lot of it!) because though I have my guesses, I truly don't know how Jon will react to learning about the nature of his true parentage. I also do not know how Kit Harington will choose to portray the scene, which is inevitably going to feature on the show sometime in the near future, I would imagine.
> 
> Anyways, I've done my best, but truthfully this has probably been the most difficult part of the story to write thus far. I apologize if you don't like how I've done it or feel it should be handled differently- I'm just doing the best I can over here. There's some crucial parts to this story coming up which depended on me getting through this reveal, so please bear with me! Think of this chapter as an important bridge over to a new island in the plot. (A little shaky and dodgy to walk on, but we'll get there eventually) :p

A wild conglomeration of thoughts streamed into Sansa's mind as she comprehended Bran's words.

_The son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen._

A series of acute realizations soon followed. _Jon is not just a wolf, but equal parts a dragon. He is no bastard; the blood that runs in his veins is as noble as mine, Arya's, and Bran's. We've been lied to all our lives._

She paused for a moment as a final thought settled. _And he is not my brother...but my cousin._ Her thoughts chimed with guilty euphoria. _We are not as broken in our desires as I thought!_

Sansa's immediate thoughts were quickly replaced by questions, both good and bad.

_Will the North still rally behind Jon if he is not the son of Ned Stark? Will anyone even believe Bran's words if we share them anyhow? And if somehow his true parentage can be proven, might Jon and I now be together?_

Perhaps most importantly, Sansa wondered _how will Jon react?_

At her side, Sansa saw echoes of the same thoughts running through Arya's mind as they met each other's gazes with wide eyes.

"This changes everything." Sansa breathed.

"It shouldn't have to." Arya said quietly. "He's still as much a Stark as he ever was."

Sansa could see the disappointment in her sister's face. Arya would be understandably saddened to learn that her favourite brother was actually her cousin.

On the other hand, Sansa was elated to learn that the man she was in love with was not nearly as close of kin as she had previously believed.

Bran leaned closer to his startled sisters. "There's no denying it will at least complicate things. Is it true that Jon has been declared King in the North?"

Sansa nodded. "And if his bannermen have any sense of loyalty it shouldn't matter whether Jon's Stark blood comes from his mother or his father."

Bran shook his head. "Perhaps it shouldn't, but it will. Both our father and our aunt were revered by the Northerners, but the difference is that Lyanna met her end after inciting a war and running off with the son of the Mad King. She was certainly less of a martyr for the Northern cause than father, or Robb…"

"That's not to mention the Targaryen side of things." Arya muttered grimly. "There's a reason the house no longer exists."

Bran glanced back at her pensively. "But they were the rightful rulers of Westeros for hundreds of years. Despite whatever hostility the people might have toward the Targaryen name it might still give Jon a possible claim on the iron throne…" Bran mused casually, as if discussing his most recent sleep or his last meal.

Sansa glared back at him willfully, almost in challenge. "Jon belongs in the North. Just ask him when he returns-he has no desire to sit in King's Landing."

"Fair enough." Bran conceded with a shrug. "But that won't stop others from thinking he does, once they learn the truth about Jon's lineage."

Sansa buried her face in her hands. "Forget about the politics. He needs know about this as soon as possible." she muttered into her flesh. "I'm going to ride up the Kingsroad and find him."

Arya grabbed Sansa's arm in warning. "Sansa, no! He'll be back soon enough. A few hours won't make a difference. Not when he's spent his whole life not knowing who he is."

Sansa bore into Arya's gaze, willing her to understand. _Every minute he spends with the Karstarks makes it more likely he'll return to us engaged_. She implored silently. _He doesn't know that now he has a choice._

"You must stay here." Arya declared firmly, refusing to let go of her sister's arm. "Jon wouldn't want-"

Sansa ripped her wrist free and marched out of Bran's chambers.

"Bye, then." Bran chided dryly as he watched her go.

Arya cast an apologetic glance at her brother and vaulted off the bed to stride after her. "Sansa, wait!" she shouted, though it didn't matter, as Sansa was halted anyhow as she nearly collided with Ser Davos in the doorway.

"Seven pardons, Lady Sansa. Just wanted to let you know that we've spotted Jon's party returning on the horizon…" he decreed happily, undeterred by she and Arya's oddly fierce expressions.

Sansa felt her heart beating in her ears. She nodded shakily and nimbly stepped around Ser Davos, bounding down the stone hall toward the stables.

Arya groaned and ran after her, leaving Davos looking perplexed outside Bran's door.

"Have a bit of _patience_!" she called breathlessly at Sansa as she continued her pursuit. "Don't you go doing anything stupid!"

Sansa glanced back at her but ran on, fuelled by her somewhat irrational fear of Jon slipping through her fingers. _At this very moment Lady Alys could be forcing him to give his answer…_

She arrived at the stables in a flurry and hastily extracted her silver mare from her stall. Sansa led her out into the courtyard and swung her leg over the horse's bare back.

"Open the gates!" She called anxiously at the East Gate's soldiers, and they regarded her doubtfully for a moment before obeying.

Arya arrived in the courtyard and found Sansa astride her horse. She jumped forward to grab the animal's leather halter, but Sansa was faster; she squeezed her mount's sides and the mare rocketed out towards the moor, narrowly fitting through the gap in the still-opening gate.

"You're crazy!" Arya shouted hoarsely after her, panting for breath as Sansa's horse's hooves left her in a flurry of snow.

Sansa scarcely registered Arya yelling after her as she crouched into her mare's ivory neck, easing the animal into a pounding gallop. The dark mass of an army was visible on one of the hills to the North, so she pointed her horse in that direction.

Across the fields the low winter sun was partially concealed behind a wall of clouds, emitting only fragmented beams of golden light. Flurries of snow whipped around Sansa as she galloped toward Jon, made more potent by a consistent wind shooting up against her back from the south. The breeze cooled her flesh beneath her cloak, but also urged her horse faster, as if helping to lift the mare's feet with each stride.

Sansa wasn't weighing her actions logically; her only thought was to get to Jon as soon as possible.

_I must tell him. I must tell him. I must tell him._ Her thoughts repeated stubbornly. _I must not let him slip away._

As Sansa arrived at a close enough distance to identify faces she began scanning the expansive crowd for Jon, her eyes wild and primal with anxiety.

Eventually she found him riding near the head of the force, with Tormund, Brienne, and Harald and Alys Karstark. Ghost trotted majestically at his side.

_At least he appears unharmed_...she noted gratefully.

Sansa cantered her horse up to the company, bringing her mare to a sliding stop several lengths from Jon.

She saw his eyes widen in surprise as he watched her ride up. The host behind him halted.

"Sansa?" He stammered befuddledly, dismounting his horse and taking slow, intrepid steps toward her, as if doubting his eyes.

She leapt down from her own horse and strode ardently toward him, leading her horse by the reins.

Jon continued to observe her with confusion. "Why aren't you in Winterfell?" he inquired immediately. "Is something wrong?"

Sansa stopped in front of him and initially began to lean forward, intending to kiss him, but righted herself as she observed the hundreds of soldiers and wildlings watching them from behind Jon's shoulders. She recalled Arya's words, _"don't do anything stupid"_ , and hugged him cordially instead, her body shaking under the weight of the words she was longing to share.

Jon remained concerned and drew back, placing steadying hands on her shoulders. "You're trembling…" he noted, his face tight with sudden worry. "What's the matter?" he pressed more urgently.

"Jon, there's something very important I need to tell you…" Sansa stammered rapidly, hushed enough that only he would hear.

He stared back at her intently. "Then for the love of the gods, Sansa, tell me!" he whispered sharply.

She fixed her gaze on his dark, concerned irises and exhaled, as if steeling herself to speak.

"Jon, you're not my brother." she uttered suddenly.

He looked at her as though she was delusional. "What are you saying? Of course I am…"

Sansa shook her head. "You are the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen."

* * *

Jon initially wondered if perhaps something was wrong with Sansa. He instructed Brienne and Tormund to lead the host the rest of the way to Winterfell and hopped back on his horse to ride ahead with her where they might have a proper conversation. She seemed to be extremely shaken and anxious, almost to a point of delirium.

As soon as they were a sufficient distance away, still trailed closely by Ghost, Jon pressed her about what was really going on- wondering if perhaps she had taken something or been ill.

However, Sansa seemed to suddenly find her head, and was then able to explain things levelly and in more detail.

She told him that Bran had returned to Winterfell this very morning, and that while away he had developed the ability to see the past. Jon was puzzled by this information and slightly doubtful, but he listened carefully anyhow.

Sansa rambled on and eventually explained what Bran had divulged about the Tower of Joy.

To Jon, the magnitude of her words seemed to suddenly sink in. He felt his heart race faster as he realized that what she had madly ridden across the moor to tell him might not be a lie.

"Don't you see, Jon? You're still a Stark, but you're not Ned Stark's son." Sansa exclaimed softly.

_Not Ned Stark's son._

The words echoed hauntingly inside Jon's head. He slipped into silence, his face surely painted with a mask of shock and consternation. He felt as though the ground were swaying under his horse's hooves.

_Everything I've ever lived for- the only thing for which I ever felt any pride- is all a lie. The man I revered and admired most kept my entire identity from me._

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Instead she watched Jon tentatively; he seemed to be staring unseeingly ahead atop his horse.

Inside Jon felt sick with betrayal and confusion. He felt spots dancing before his eyes. There seemed to be several different Sansas watching him from the side; all of them emanating pity.

To Jon's great relief, Sansa let him wade silently alone through his thoughts for several moments. Her gift of silence was rightfully given, for if she had spoken to him he doubted that he would have been able to answer.

_What am I, if not Ned Stark's son? Where will we go from here? Will I lose the North and everything Sansa and I have fought for?_

Only when the gates of Winterfell loomed large did Jon snap out of his melancholy thoughts, finally able to regain focus and turn toward Sansa.

She met his eyes sadly. "I'm sorry, Jon…" she said quietly. "I cannot imagine how hard this must be to hear, nor how betrayed you must feel, but...there is some consolation."

His expression solemn, Jon gave a small nod, allowing her to continue.

Sansa's face brightened slightly, though she suddenly would not meet his eyes and fixed them instead on the ground. "It's like I said earlier…" she started slowly. "You're not my brother. We're cousins."

A sudden understanding dawned within Jon, which melted some of the bitterness and bewilderment from his heart. He regarded Sansa with a new, wide-eyed fascination.

_What has stolen from me my identity has also gifted me an opportunity_ …he realized wondrously.

He and Sansa stared at each other for a drawn-out moment, their horses shifting restlessly under them.

Jon was about to speak when he remembered a sobering fact. His face fell visibly, causing Sansa to frown.

"What is it?" she asked him cautiously.

"I've just agreed to marry Alys Karstark." he choked quietly, feeling his heart shatter into copious fragments once more.

* * *

Before any decisions or plans could be made, Jon insisted on hearing the entire odyssey of his parentage from Bran himself. He made his way up to his brother's- or rather, _cousin's_ \- chambers and greeted him warmly, speaking openly of relief, of joy, and of the repair of their family.

_Whether my Stark parent is Ned or Lyanna, they are still my kin._ Jon reassured himself coolly.

Ghost trotted into the chamber, sniffing the air tentatively. Bran brightened as he saw Jon's direwolf, and called his name exuberantly. The white wolf leapt forward and onto the bed, sniffing Bran excitedly and allowing the boy to wrap his arms around his white pelt and bury his face in his snowy mane.

Jon felt a sharp pang of sadness as he remembered what had happened to Summer.

Once the moments of reunion had settled and Ghost had laid down at Bran's side, Jon put on a businesslike facade and pressed him gently for the whole story.

Jon listened to Bran parrot an elaborated version of what Sansa had already told him. He seemed confident and sure of what he had seen, to be certain.

By the time Bran was finished, Jon could hear the commotion of the returning soldiers in the yard below.

"So what do I do now?" Jon asked absently. "Now that I know I'm not who everyone thinks I am…"

Bran looked back at him remorsefully. "Nothing, until you've found the proof. No one will believe the words of a crippled boy."

"What if I don't want anyone to know?"

Bran shrugged. "I suppose you could just go on being Ned Stark's bastard...but do you really think you can go on living a lie? I know you, Jon. You couldn't even fib about eating your greens as a child."

Jon emitted a tentative smile. "I suppose you're right. The truth must come eventually." he conceded.

They sat in silence for a moment, until suddenly Jon found himself caught on Bran's earlier words. He shot his cousin a contemplative look. "What did you mean by _the proof_?" he asked suddenly.

Bran's face creased with thought. "I've seen something in my visions. Father's left you something...and I think it might help. I just have to remember what it is…" he confessed. "I can't remember if I saw him leaving it for you in the past, or you finding it in the future. I must admit, I mix the two of you up sometimes in my visions."

Jon raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm telling the truth," Bran vowed reproachfully. "It's strange, that you're the most like him even though you aren't his. You even look similar..."

Jon felt his insides warm at Bran's words. Whether they were intended as so or not, Jon took his cousin's observations as praise. "Thank you, Bran. Whether you mean to or not, you're making me feel better."

"Happy to help." Bran muttered with a small smile.

Jon nodded and stood up. "I'll let you rest. You've had a long journey…"

"I'm not tired." Bran insisted.

"Even so," Jon continued, "we should probably sort out and explain some things before you...make an appearance." he added carefully. "Technically speaking you are the rightful lord of Winterfell."

"But you're the King in the North!" Bran countered indignantly. "The bannermen chose you- besides, I don't want to be in charge."

Jon regarded him kindly. "We can discuss it later, after you've rested some."

Bran yawned and plopped back onto his furs. "Fine." he grumbled in concession. "But you have to come get me if anything important happens.

"I will." Jon agreed before exiting the room. Ghost lifted his head to watch him go, regarding him as if in question.

"It's alright. You can stay, boy." Jon murmured quietly as he shut the door.

* * *

Sansa and Jon met moments later in the solar, intending to come to an agreement about what to do about the Karstarks.

"Jon," Sansa started prudently. "I won't force you to do anything...but you need to know that you don't have to go through with...with marrying Alys Karstark." she finished bitterly.

Jon moved closer to take her hand gently. "I've made a hasty mistake- there is nothing I want more than to change things," he admitted regretfully. "But I am treading dangerous ground; if I back out of this pact there could be consequences, consequences which will only be furthered if I reveal my parentage to the North." he added. "My claim on Winterfell and the Stark name is already weak enough as it is."

"Then strengthen it." Sansa mused plainly. "Marry me instead."

Jon stared at her in astonishment, his mouth hanging open. Only in his most distant and disconnected thoughts had he imagined that a marriage to Sansa might be possible. His heart thundered against his ribcage in response to her words.

Sansa watched him curiously, feeling the need to fill the silence with more support to her argument. "You could claim to forego marrying Alys as a result of your newfound lineage, and switch to marrying a Stark instead to secure your hold on your home and title." she suggested helpfully, quite pleased with herself. "Luckily for you there is still a Stark available." she added softly with a small smile.

"That's...it's...you're- I mean, it's perfect." Jon stammered, at a complete loss for words. He swallowed anxiously and watched her with wide eyes.

He exhaled to calm himself and pressed forward such that he was only a foot's distance from Sansa. "You would really do it? You would marry me?" he asked levelly.

"I probably would have done it a month ago, if I'd known we were cousins." She whispered, placing a hand softly on the side of Jon's face.

Jon stared back at her fervently, and as one they leaned forward to share a gentle kiss- full of longing and promise. He relished the new hope that was clearly detectable in her embrace.

When they pulled slowly apart Sansa's eyes remained fixed on Jon. "It's very refreshing, to know that we are no longer a sinful atrocity…" she added half-seriously. "The only problem," she added quietly, "is this missing proof Bran spoke of. Nothing can be done until we find it."

Jon frowned. "Until then I'll have to keep up appearances- pretend I'm going ahead with the marriage to Alys."

Sansa stared at him matter-of-factly. "Do what you must, but that can only go on for so long. The proof must be located."

He nodded in agreement, releasing Sansa's hand. "And what of Bran?" Jon added worriedly. "The rightful lord of Winterfell has returned; what if the bannermen decide to follow him instead, and all of this is for nothing?"

"You said so yourself," Sansa reminded him."Bran does not wish to rule, and men will not follow an unwilling leader." she noted. "Besides, his leadership would mean the end of the Stark line, for he will never father any children, and survival is the most crucial element of all."

* * *

Harald Karstark sat once again immediately to Jon's right as they dined that evening, and spent the meal regaling him with accounts of the the victory at Last Hearth. The wights had been more numerous than those who had invaded Winterfell, but they were still a far cry from the forces Jon had seen at Hardhome, and had been strangely free of White Walkers. The company of wights had fallen easily under the swords of a proper army.

_The fight against the dead will not remain so painless- soon enough the White Walkers will breach the Wall and mount a much more deadly attack on the North. Jon predicted despairingly._

None of the soldiers or companymen who had fought seemed as worried as Jon felt, but then, none of them had fought beyond the Wall, except for the Wildlings.

Lord Karstark cleared his throat to regain Jon's attention. "I've taken the liberty of having your maester send ravens to all of the great houses in the North, telling them to ride for Winterfell in a moon's time for the wedding ceremony." he declared contentedly. "I've assumed you'd like to say your vows here, in your own home?"

Jon nodded weakly. _I intend to say my vows here, yes, but not to Lady Alys._ he thought internally.

"It's no small happening, a king getting married." he added profoundly. "When your brother Robb took his foreign wife he did it in secret- ruined a chance for a perfectly good celebration."

Beside him, Lady Alys smiled. "A celebration would do everyone some good right now, don't you agree, your grace?"

"Oh, yes." Jon replied briskly, having not been paying full attention. "Of course, my lady." He finished, casting a fickle glance at Sansa.

_Pray we can prove my true parentage soon, so I don't have to continue with this unbearable falsehood._


	14. Brave, Gentle, and Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran goes for a ride. Tensions mount. Jon reads a notable document.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting, I had a lot of real life stuff to attend to and it took me a long time to write a particular element of this chapter. (I bet you will be able to guess what it is :p) Thanks for all of the kind reviews- for whatever reason there was a slight influx after the last chapter, and I really appreciated them! They helped me to stay motivated through writing this other almost equally important chapter.
> 
> Anyways, hopefully you find this offering to be thought-provoking, and will join me again for part 15. I'll be working hard on it whenever I have the time, and hope to post it fairly efficiently in the near future. Thanks again for reading!

That night Sansa and Jon found themselves together in Jon's chambers for the first time in nearly a fortnight. They both remained in their nightclothes to uphold the usual decency, of course, but the atmosphere still felt notably different.

They lay together in the darkness, Sansa curled contentedly into Jon's chest.

"It was terrible, being alone again." she muttered quietly, before either of them had fallen asleep. "I hardly slept while you were gone. The nightmares returned."

Jon opened his eyes a smidgen to peer down at her through the shadows. "You know," He started softly, "if we marry we'll be able to do this every night without any secrecy or sneaking around. For the rest of our lives."

He thought he saw her smile in the gloom.

"I look forward to it." she breathed exultantly, her breath warm on Jon's chest. "No more secrets."she trailed off sleepily, her body relaxing as she slipped closer to oblivion.

"No more secrets." Jon repeated quietly, his heart yearning for the moment when that would be true.

* * *

"That's a fine new tapestry." Lady Alys mused flatly the next morning as the occupants of Winterfell broke their fast in the Great Hall. "I've only just noticed it…" she admitted, drawing her eyes to the hanging behind the high table. Her tone was perceptibly jealous...

Jon immediately turned in his spot at the long table to regard the new tapestry, apparently not having noticed it the previous night either. As soon as he observed the size and prominence of the image he shot Sansa a slightly frantic, concerned glance. He seemed to be silently shouting _really? It had to go there, right where she would see it?_

In response Sansa took a long sip of tea, glancing at Jon slyly from behind her mug. Once she had set it loudly back on the table she smiled cunningly at Alys. "It was a rather nice gift, that hanging." she muttered, her voice dripping with false charm. "I find it to be suitably grand and imposing for the Great Hall- a place of decision-making and reign."

"Indeed." Lady Alys mumbled, her face somewhat pressed. She quickly turned and took Jon's arm, much to Sansa's disgust. "Once we're married we'll have to have something similar made. Perhaps depicting us side-by-side in battle." She crooned.

Jon only nodded, his face pallid.

Peripherally, Sansa saw Arya shoot her a knowing glare. She felt a nudge on her arm and heard Arya whisper. _"I know she's becoming insufferable, but you need to watch yourself…"_

Sansa raised an eyebrow and exchanged a series of inconspicuous faces and expressions with her sister. They had become quite adept at communicating silently as of late. She had enlightened Arya this morning about her pact with Jon, to which her sister had reacted surprisingly well. She certainly seemed to prefer losing Jon to Sansa than to Alys, at least.

_It's strange, really, how accepting Arya has been of everything...almost as strange as all of her newfound advice-administering and rule-abiding. She is much matured since we separated long ago._ Sansa reflected pensively. _I can only hope that the rest of the world will be so forgiving when Jon and I expose our true intent._

After the morning's eating had concluded, Lady Alys pressed Jon into taking her outside of the castle walls for a proper "tour". He was hardly in a position to refuse under the watchful eye of Lord Karstark. Regretfully Arya and Sansa watched them go, riding out the main gate on a pair of handsome Stark horses. Sansa thought she saw Jon cast a beseeching eye back towards them as the doors closed.

As soon as the thunder of the shutting oak gate had died, Sansa exhaled defeatedly, wondering what to do next. _Slowly but surely we are losing each other. She noted sadly. We need to act quickly, before fate seals gates of its own against us._

* * *

Bran's return had been announced that morning before all of Winterfell's staff, soldiers, and council. To most of the new individuals manning the castle, the return of the youngest living Stark was joyous, though it did not elicit the tremendous magnitude of change that Jon had warned of. The new servants and soldiers had pledged themselves to she and Jon, not Bran, who was a relative stranger.

Mercifully Bran did not seem bothered by the lack of fuss. He seemed to be hung up instead on his own thoughts and troubles- likely regarding the impending Winter's War.

Last night, Sansa had asked the farrier to construct her brother some sort of special saddle, much like the original he had used several years ago, which would enable him to ride alone. His old one was much too small and very well worn; regardless, it seemed to have served as a suitable model, for the farrier delivered the completed product the next morning after Jon and Alys had left the castle.

As soon as Sansa and Arya were informed of the completed saddle they fetched Bran and, with Meera's assistance, helped him down to the courtyard where a gentle horse was waiting.

Sansa couldn't help but smile as she watched him jaunt around the yard, seeming the happiest he'd been since returning home. Watching Bran ride she could almost convince herself that he was not crippled- just an ordinary boy untouched by tragedy.

_Hardly a boy anymore, though._ She reminded herself. _He's nearly five-and-ten...older than I was when I was brought to King's Landing, already betrothed to Joffrey._

Sansa suppressed a shiver and fixed her gaze back on Bran's carefree ride. She hardly wanted to dwell on the dark times in her past…

Eventually Sansa and Arya accompanied Bran out into the Godswood, he astride his gentle grey horse, they plodding along at his side. The reunited siblings exchanged gentle banter, frequently interspersed with Arya's characteristic teasing jabs. It was warm and comfortable, almost as though they were children again.

Sansa had entirely lost track of time, preoccupied as she was reminiscing and joking with her siblings. She was delightfully surprised when Jon ultimately joined them, finally free of Alys Karstark. His hair was windswept and mottled with snow from riding out on the moors, and he wore a distinctly guilty expression.

"What's the matter?" Sansa called curiously as Jon marched over. The smile which had appeared on her face upon seeing him weakened slightly.

Jon glanced at her culpably. "Lady Karstark kissed me." He admitted regretfully, his face twisted with displeasure.

Arya chuckled audibly. "I'm not all that surprised- she took you out on a sightseeing ride alone. Anyways, it's not like she's a bloody troll. It could be worse." she suggested humorously. "Besides, if you hadn't done it she'd be thinking you prefer the company of men."

Jon shot her an unimpressed, unconsoled glare.

Sansa took his arm gently. "It's fine, Jon, you just did what you had to." she assured him calmly. _"And I couldn't care less, as long as I know you didn't enjoy it."_ she finished in a whisper, her insides surging with triumph.

He glanced back at her and gave a tiny smile, gladness clear in his warm, dark eyes.

"Speaking of kissing…" Arya started mischievously. "What ever happened to that silver box from the cave?" she added briskly with genuine curiosity.

Bran looked down at the three of them from atop his horse with evident confusion. "Kissing?" he muttered perplexedly. "Caves? What in the name of the old gods are you-"

Arya ignored him and continued. "Did you open it yet?"

A sudden look of revelation flooded Jon's features and he regarded Arya wondrously. "The chest..." he murmured in astonishment. "I had completely forgotten about it! It's still sitting up in my chambers!"

Sansa stared at him intently. "You don't think….?"

Jon locked eyes with her profoundly. "All of that stuff about your father leaving hints, about things being meant for us to find...it has to be." he finished amazedly.

He fixed his gaze momentarily on Arya. "Brilliant- your random, convoluted mind is." he teased affectionately.

She cast him a beaming smile. "Let's go get on with it, then!"

"Will someone please explain?" Bran interjected suddenly.

Sansa glanced at him securely. "I promise we can tell you everything after, but right now we have a very important box to open…" she implored pleadingly.

"Fine…" Bran mumbled irritably. "I'll go find Meera."

"Good plan." Sansa muttered with a nod, before following Jon and Arya out of the Godswood.

* * *

As Jon pushed open the doors to his chamber he noticed that beside him, Sansa was frowning. He glanced at her inquiringly.

She obliged with a sigh. "I've just remembered...the chest is still locked. How do you plan on opening it?"

"I'll find a way." Jon replied simply. "Perhaps by force."

"Didn't you say the lock was Valyrian Steel?" Sansa uttered anxiously.

Jon nodded. "That's what it looked like."

"Nothing cuts Valyrian Steel!"

Arya raised an eyebrow at her sister. "That's not true." she remarked simply.

"What are you talking about?" Sansa muttered reproachfully. "It's the most powerful substance in the world!"

Arya smiled knowingly. "The only thing that cuts Valyrian Steel is Valyrian Steel."

"And how would you know that?" Sansa retorted, aghast.

"Because I paid attention when maester Luwin taught us about weapons." Arya replied cheerfully.

"She's right." Jon chimed eagerly.

" _And_ ," Arya added with a flourish, "we're lucky that Jon just _happens_ to have a Valyrian Steel sword on hand." she finished gleefully. "The gods really do want him to open the shiny box."

Sansa smiled at her sister bemusedly, though internally her heart was thudding eagerly in anticipation. _If we're right about all of these variables then Jon's lineage will finally be proven!_ She realized with a start.

Sansa watched in slow motion as Jon drew the silver chest out from one of the largest drawers in her father's desk. He placed it on the stone floor and instructed she and Arya to stand back and shield their faces.

She observed his expression as he drew forth Longclaw from the sheath on his hip. He seemed keen, brusque, and possibly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he might be about to uncover.

_Whatever secret this chest conceals will be exposed with a swing of Jon's sword._ She mused prudently. _Assuming that Arya and Jon are correct about the properties of Valyrian Steel, of course._

Jon raised Longclaw above his head, and Sansa turned away, laying her hands over her face. She could feel Arya at her side, and hoped that she was doing the same.

A long instant of silence passed, tangible and suffocating, before a deafening ring and crunch split the air.

Sansa quickly uncovered her face and turned eagerly to regard Jon. Her spirits leapt like a direwolf on prey as she observed that the ancient Valyrian Steel lock was askew and hanging open, having succumbed to Jon's attacking blade.

She found herself breathing quickly as she and Arya marched over and crouched at the box's side. Jon sheathed his sword and met them on the ground, his exhalations loud and anxious. He reached forward and detangled the lacerated lock from its berth with shaking hands, laying it gently aside on the stone.

Sansa held her breath as Jon opened the chest, its contents obscured from she and Arya's sight. She scanned his face warily for some sort of reaction.

Jon said nothing and reached inside the silver container- scarcely larger than a small loaf of bread- to draw out a piece of weathered parchment. Sansa's heart beat in her throat as she watched him read.

"Well?" Arya blurted impatiently on her left, clearly unable to stand being left in the dark.

"This is it." Jon murmured in a very small, very tentative voice.

"What is it?" Sansa asked gently, finally allowing some of her pent-up breath to escape.

"A letter from my mother."

* * *

_Dearest Jon,_

_If you are reading this, then Ned has decided that it is time for you to know the truth about who you are. I am sorry that I could not tell you myself, but the gods are cruel, and they come for me even as pen this letter._

_I do not know whether I am addressing you, my son, as a child or as a man grown, but no matter what your life has brought you up till this moment I am sorry, for I will have left you alone to face this world, a world which I know can be harsh and unforgiving toward even the most stoic and hardened of men. I pray that somehow this heartless world of ours has treated you well and kept you happy anyhow, even if others have continued to toil and war over its surface._

_They may tell you that myself and your father were the root of this war, the one which waged even as you came screaming into this world. Perhaps there is an element of truth to such accusations, but I find myself doubtful that out of such darkness could come such blessing and vibrance. By that I mean you, my son, the grace of my life, whose blood is that of kings, of ice and of fire. Maybe the nascency of your good comes at the cost of great chaos, but I, however selfishly, can think of nothing worthier for which our tepid order should be sacrificed._

_Your father was Rhaegar Targaryan, a warrior and a prince. I suppose that makes you a prince of sorts as well. Even as I write the remaining blood of the dragon is being spilled across Westeros, but I trust that no matter what happens to Rhaegar's ancient house, his blood will live on in your veins, my son. One day when you read this letter, that fact might mean a great deal._

_Rhaegar's blood unfortunately also condemns you to a life of secrecy and deception. You will have grown up being told that you are the son of my brother Eddard, but in reading this today you will know of our falsehood, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive us. I promise that forcing you into an upbringing of deception never matched our ideal intentions, but it was necessary for your safety. Once again, I am sorrier than I can say that I will not be able to explain all of these things to you myself._

_I loved your father, whatever anyone else may tell you, and I know that he loved me in return. Our bond, though perhaps remarkable and unconventional, blessed me with you, for however short a time. I love you, Jon; if I could I would give you everything- the world, the sky, the moon and stars, all of it for you, so you might begin to understand how much I love you. Whatever happens or wherever you find yourself, never doubt that you have been loved, and will be loved by many more after I am gone._

_I pray that Ned will show you this great love, and raise you as a father should. I hope that you will grow to be brave, gentle, and strong. When one day you read this, I hope that it might help to fill any emptiness I have unwittingly bestowed upon you in my passing. I know that an old piece of parchment is no substitute for watching you grow up- seeing you learn the ways of the world, swing your first sword, experience tireless adventure, find love of your own- but it is all I can offer before I must leave you. Do not despair, my son, for wherever I am you can be sure that I have always been watching, and will continue to do so, until one day you join me. I will see you again, my prince; until then learn carefully, fight bravely, love passionately, and live greatly- just as I know you can- for the both of us._

_Love always,_

_Lyanna Stark_

* * *

Sansa read over her aunt's words several times. She etched into her mind the image of the delicate, arched writing, and of the elegant signature emblazoned at the foot of the document. It was undoubtedly authentic, seeming to radiate her fallen aunt's spirit, if such a thing was possible.

Lyanna's poetic farewell to Jon seemed to leave within Sansa's mind a deeper imprint with each re-reading. She felt her throat swell at the beauty and tragedy of it, and at Lyanna's ethereal final promise that she would see him again. The words ignited within Sansa a strange, intangible hope, imagining that she might one day be reunited with her mother and father, Robb and Rickon, her direwolf Lady, and all of the others she'd lost.

Jon appeared pensive- just as was to be expected- as he sat on his bed and watched Arya and Sansa read the letter.

When finally all three had perused it intently, Sansa watched him inquiringly. _Jon should be the one who decides what to do next_...she decided ardently, waiting for him to say something.

"I suppose this proves it." Jon eventually murmured tightly. "There's enough evidence here to convince at least the majority, I'm sure."

"How does it feel?" Arya inquired gently. "To finally have connected to your mother? Haven't you always wanted that?"

Jon regarded her with a soft smile. "It feels enlightening. All those times when I was younger and felt incomplete...this was what was missing- an explanation, at least a partial one- but…" he trailed off hesitantly.

"But what?" Sansa pressed quietly.

"It's nothing. Sort of...pointless, really." He insisted with a small shake of his head.

"What?" Arya urged more incessantly. "You have to tell us now you've said that."

Jon sighed in concession "It's about what she writes in the last line- _I will see you again_." He started tentatively.

"That's a beautiful line, Jon." Sansa noted with trepidation.

He shrugged. "I know. It's just that...remember I died once already, and...there was nothing there."

Sansa and Arya's faces fell visibly. "You never told us that." Arya whispered grievously.

Jon regarded them grimly. "It's not something we should be worrying about now, I know, and I don't mean to spoil the letter- it's a great thing to have found for other reasons." he promised them dutifully. "It's just that I can't stop thinking about how the one consolation she tried to leave me- that at least in passing I might get to see her, and everyone else who's gone- is false." he finished grimly.

Sansa watched him with tears in her eyes- a man brought to his knees by mortality and his own humanity. She took his hand firmly and stared into his eyes with affirmation.

"You cannot worry about what will or will not happen when you die, Jon, such that you forget the rest of your mother's words." Sansa began resolutely. " _learn carefully, fight bravely, love passionately, and live greatly_." she recited, her voice trembling with emotion. " _Live_ , Jon. You must do this and the others, if not for yourself then for me, for Arya, for Bran...and for the North."

He looked up at her deeply, his expression fierce. "You're right." he muttered firmly, already seeming broaden and emanate a more willful aura. He rose from his bed, something seeming to have shifted within his mind. "This letter is the key. With it I can finally tell the North the truth- that House Targaryen lives."

Sansa watched him in amazement and pride. _It's as though he sat down a Stark, and rose a Stark-Targaryen._ She mused avidly. _And if all goes to plan, he is to be mine._ She realized with a jolt of breathless anticipation.


	15. Unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth comes to light. An adjustment is made. Jon prepares to leave once more.

“Thank you all for halting your duties to heed my call.” Jon announced steadfastly, standing atop Winterfell’s battlements to address all of the occupants of the castle.

Every man, woman, child, soldier, and high-ranking wildling within the castle walls had marshaled into a single audience, huddling attentively in the courtyard. There had proven to be far too many listeners for Jon’s address to have taken place in the Great Hall, so instead they gathered out in the yard under a watchful grey sky. 

Just behind Jon stood Sansa and Arya, flanked more distantly by Bran and Meera. He felt his siblings- or rather, his _cousins_ \- observing with silent encouragement as he prepared to reveal the truth of his lineage to his most immediate subjects. 

_They deserve to know the truth, and must hear it from my own lips if it is to be taken as sincere._ Jon reminded himself with a shudder. _I must do this, if there is to be any chance of them continuing to follow me._

He found his eyes drawn anxiously to the front of the crowd, where Lord Karstark and Lady Alys were regarding him curiously, no doubt wondering what important proclamation Jon might be about to make. 

He cleared his throat and regarded his audience firmly. “This morning I made a discovery which I feel should not be kept secret, for it is inevitably going to change the nature of things to come.” he declared ominously. 

Jon thought he heard Sansa exhale quietly behind him. 

“I am not the son of Ned Stark,” He disclosed flatly, cringing internally as he spoke the words aloud. He scarcely heard the startled exclamations of the people below, for he was immediately lost in waves of his own uncertainty and angst.

Jon stared forward unseeingly for a moment, until the crowd below quieted and he remembered how imperative it was for him to continue. He gripped the railing in front of him to anchor himself, pleading that his voice would not fail. With a quiver of apprehension he thought _there’s no going back now._

Jon straightened slightly and regained poise, trying earnestly to appear undaunted. “But I am still a Stark.” he called clearly, his voice ringing in the wintry air. “My mother was Lyanna, and Lord Eddard my uncle. He still raised me as one of his own.”

Most of the listeners seemed fixated, open-mouthed and shocked, but some seemed outraged, shouting occasionally to make their displeasure heard. 

Jon ignored them and continued. He dared not observe the expression on Lady Alys’ face. 

“It would be dishonest for me not to admit my true father’s identity as well.” He continued solemnly. “I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs in equal strength alongside the blood of the wolf in my veins.”

A stony silence greeted this declaration. The drop of a needle could have been heard easily in the suddenly mute courtyard. 

_House Targaryen lives._ Jon wanted to add prudently, but he stopped himself as he observed his subjects’ faces. Most curiously he landed his eyes on the face of Alys Karstark. She appeared surprisingly unaffected and blank, as though she couldn’t comprehend all of the fuss. Her brother, Lord Harald, was slowly tightening his expression as he considered the implications of Jon’s discovery. 

For a while the yard remained silent, Jon watching the crowd with great trepidation.

Eventually a lone voice broke the still air, shattering the silence with its bold affirmation.

“We’ve sworn to serve you, your grace,” One of the Stark soldiers called brazenly. “Because you are the right man to lead us through this winter. Not because of your blood.” He asserted sharply. “My sword remains loyal to you, now and always.”

“Aye.” Another man echoed. “Anyhow, ‘e’s still a Stark regardless. I see no difference today from the man who led us into battle at Last Hearth.” 

“Aye!” More voices returned, the chanting growing in strength. The soldiers seemed to rise as one, all pledging their unwavering loyalty. 

_Our swords have not abandoned us, at least._ Jon thought proudly, with a great sigh of relief. 

Mercifully many other voices soon joined in, belonging to the servants, cooks, maids, stable boys, and the like. Very quickly it was only the Karstarks who seemed to wear less than favourable expressions, as if they could already sense what this revelation would do to Lady Alys’ marriage pact. 

Jon turned to regard Sansa and Arya, noting gladly their pleased expressions. He turned back toward the chanting crowd, who quieted once more.

“Thank you for not abandoning your vows to House Stark. I cannot ask more of any of you than your loyalty and service; it is this sense of honour and duty that will see us through the long winter.” he assured those gathered with a nod. “Remain behind me, and Winterfell and its subjects will survive.” Jon finished firmly, to great acclaim from his listeners. 

He dismissed them all to return to their duties, and as the gathering disbanded he immediately noted the Karstarks approaching. 

Sansa wandered up to his side at the railing and took his hand. “It’s time.” she whispered weightily into Jon’s ear. He nodded in response, his insides churning with dread.

* * *

A few moments later Jon, Sansa, and Harald and Alys Karstark had gathered in the solar.

Sansa noted a palpable tension in the room, not helped by Alys’ frequent inquiring glances at Jon.

“When did you intend on telling us,” Lord Karstark muttered stiffy, his gaze icy as he swirled a smattering of red wine around in his goblet. “That Jon here’s a bloody Targaryen?”

“I would remind you that you are addressing your king-” Sansa lashed fiercely, her polar eyes boring powerfully into Lord Karstark. 

-”It’s okay, Sansa.” Jon insisted calmly, placing his hand gently on her arm. He shifted his gaze to Harald Karstark. “I only discovered this morning, my lord. You are among the first to know.” 

_It’s only a partial lie_...Sansa mused thoughtfully as she listened. 

Lord Karstark cleared his throat. “I’m going to _presume_ that our alliance still stands...” 

Jon nodded decisively. “You are correct in that sense, Lord Karstark; your house will remain loyal to House Stark. But I can no longer marry Lady Alys.”

Lord Harald slammed his goblet down on the oak table with a bang. “I _knew_ this would happen.” he shouted angrily. “Can you even prove that you are who you say?” he added tersely, crossing his arms. 

“I can. In the form of a letter from my mother.”

“A forgery, most like.” Lord Karstark spat. He raised a finger at Jon. “As if your newfound _noble blood_ justifies cowardly backing out of our pact...we had an agreement!” 

“Aye, we had an agreement, but the circumstances have changed.” Jon declared forcefully, rising from his chair to meet Lord Karstark eye to eye. “House Stark owes you nothing, _my lord_. I remember very well who it was that would not come to our aid when we made to overthrow the Boltons.”

Lord Harald opened his mouth but emitted no sound, his brow still creased but his eyes suddenly finding the ground. 

“We shouldn’t have to earn your loyalty, Lord Karstark.” Jon declared vehemently. “But you may want to think about earning our favour. Or don’t you remember what happened to Walder Frey and Ramsay Bolton.” he reminded smoothly. “Both enemies of House Stark.”

Lord Harald glanced at Jon in shock. He seemed to be without words. Lady Alys regarded him insistently for an instant before shaking her head and meeting Jon’s gaze on her own instead. 

“If you’ll forgive me saying, your grace, is it really still House Stark if you’re a...Targaryen?” she inquired flaty, her expression fierce but masking potent disappointment. 

Jon stared at her thoughtfully. “For that reason I must do what I can to assert my claim on Winterfell, and on the Stark name. Which is why I cannot marry you, Lady Alys.”

Sansa watched Jon carefully, her heart beating rapidly in anticipation. 

He opened his mouth slowly, hesitating before speaking. “I will be marrying Lady Sansa.” he stated, his eyes meeting hers delicately. “We’ve agreed that our union would be the best way to solidify my claim on the Stark name, and on Winterfell.”

Sansa tried to appear composed and diplomatic, stifling her desire to beam happily under Jon’s gaze. 

“Your own sister?” Lady Alys exclaimed in ardent shock. 

“More of a Targaryen than I thought.” Lord Karstark muttered absently, taking deep swig of his wine. 

Jon shook his head quickly. “My cousin, actually. As of this morning.” he corrected smoothly.

“It’s perfectly acceptable.” Sansa interjected upon seeing Alys’ expression. “Many non-Targaryens have taken cousins for their wives before.” Sansa added factually. “Tywin Lannister being a prime example.”

Lady Alys sighed. “I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed. I feel I could’ve made you very happy, your grace.”

“And I’m sorry to have gone back on my word, but this match is best for House Stark.”

Alys shook her head, looking weary. “I suppose then that there’s nothing more I can say...except perhaps good luck; some of the Northern Lords might not take well to this...new pairing.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Jon noted politely. “Though it shouldn’t matter. With some reminding my vassal lords will remember that House Stark’s personal business is secondary to the importance of the North remaining united; there’s still a war coming.”

Lord Harald nodded. “Understood...your grace.” he chided reluctantly. “Though seeing as you will no longer be marrying my sister I see no reason for us to remain at Winterfell. We ride for Karhold tomorrow at dawn.” he muttered, setting his empty goblet down on the table. “You may call for us when the dead are launching their attack, but no sooner.” he pronounced bitterly. 

Jon conceded with a nod. “Very well, my lord. Safe travels.” he muttered, before rising from his chair to leave the solar. Sansa followed, falling into place at his side as they proceeded down the empty corridor. 

“I think perhaps I’ve just witnessed your inner Targaryen for the first time.” Sansa noted quietly with a soft smile. “Lord and Lady Karstark never stood a chance.”

He smiled modestly back at her. “I was never going to let them come between us.”

Sansa smiled and tentatively took his arm. _It feels the most normal thing is the world, to walk at Jon’s side._ She reflected contentedly. 

At her side, Jon cleared his throat. “I must go find maester Jervin and see that he sends ravens to the Northern lords informing them that they need not ride for Winterfell…” he muttered absently, inciting a revelatory glance from Sansa. 

“Why would you need to do that? Save a lot of trouble and let them come for our marriage instead.” She proposed prudently. 

Jon appeared somewhat surprised. “Are you sure you want all the vassals present?” he murmured astonishedly. “I had assumed given the nature of the situation, and of your...history...that you’d prefer a smaller ceremony…”

Sansa halted Jon with her arm, staring directly into his eyes. “The lords should see our union for themselves if they are to condone it, and be given the chance to celebrate with us if they are to support us unconditionally.” she declared firmly. “And as for my history…” she continued more softly. “...for the first time in my life I have control over my own marriage. I don’t want us to hide. Let us declare our devotions for all the North to see.”

Jon smiled and exhaled audibly. “As you wish, my lady.” he agreed contentedly, taking her hand gently within his own.

* * *

News of the dissolution of Jon’s marriage to Alys Karstark, and of the impending union between he and Sansa in its stead raged through Winterfell like a brushfire. 

Where initially there was whispering and trepidation there soon grew joy and celebration. _“They’re cousins now…”_ was the string of syllables on every pair of lips, a slow spreading of justification and understanding through the castle walls. 

Two days after Jon’s declaration in the courtyard he and Sansa took their mid-day meal in the Great Hall, both uncontainably relieved following the departure of the Karstarks. To keep their company a rather expansive circle had gathered, consisting of Arya, Bran, Meera, Tormund, Davos, Brienne, and even the squire Podrick. 

Each person at the table was now aware of the adjustment in Jon’s marriage plans, and each had reacted in his own way. 

Arya seemed happy for them, while also somewhat morose, perhaps fearing that with marriage she would lose Jon completely. 

Bran had been slightly disturbed and certainly perplexed upon learning of Jon and Sansa’s feelings for one another, and had refused for nearly a day to talk to either of them. Eventually, however, he seemed to be overtaken by a strange curiosity and not only agreed to speak to them again, but also bombarded them with odd questions, such as:

_“Does this mean that all those times when we were younger...you two secretly fancied each other?”_

_“What would your children be to me, then? My cousin-removed nieces and nephews?”_

And,

_“When you’re married, will you be Targaryens, Starks, or Stark-Targaryens?”_

Davos had been polite and unjudging, as expected, so it was very hard to discern his thoughts on the matter. Lady Brienne seemed similarly nonchalant, insisting that _“whatever makes Lady Sansa happy makes me happy as well.”_

Perhaps the most joyful of the bunch was Tormund, who had proceeded to clap Jon on the back, chortling happily. _“That’s how we do things beyond the Wall as well…”_ he’d declared gruffly. _“...why steal some homely other clanswoman when you’ve a perfectly attractive sister to take for a wife.”_

After this statement Jon had reddened and reminded Tormund patiently that Sansa was, indeed, only his cousin, but he’d been cheered nonetheless by his liberal friend’s support. 

Now as they dined everything seemed of the ordinary, as though each table member had come to terms with what was to be the future of Winterfell and House Stark. Jon discussed matters of import with Ser Davos, Sansa conversed politely with Meera Reed, Bran and Arya bickered about something trivial, Tormund tried unsuccessfully to engage Brienne in awkward conversation, and Podrick watched it all with curiosity as he sipped at his soup. 

After some time maester Jervin entered the hall, clutching a weathered brown scroll, and all heads turned to observe him. He strode over to Jon’s side and handed him the letter tentatively. 

“You’ve just received this letter, your grace. It bears the Targaryen seal.” he noted inquiringly.

Immediately those dining fell silent, and Jon felt all eyes in the room track his movements as he accepted the parchment and cracked open the letter. It was not lengthy nor confusing in its intent, but he read it over several times nonetheless.

_Of course._ Jon thought numbly as the words permeated his mind. _I’m not the last Targaryen. I’ve forgotten about the Dragon Queen._

He hadn’t so much as considered the stories regarding the “mother of dragons” since maester Aemon had passed. Last Jon had heard she had been amassing armies around Slaver’s Bay, half a world away. 

_It seems I’ve missed a great deal._ Jon reflected with slight concern. _Since I last thought of her, Daenerys Targaryen has crossed the Narrow Sea, reclaimed her ancestral home Dragonstone, and is now making her way North to treat with me._

Jon’s eyes drifted downwards to land on the Queen’s sharp, concise signature. It then occurred to him that she had addressed him as Jon Stark. The notion filled him both with pride and with dread. 

_She doesn’t know that I am her kin. She thinks I have been legitimized by the Starks._ He observed with a jolt. 

Jon then noticed suddenly that Sansa was eyeing him expectantly. The rest of the table was silent, everyone having been watching him read. 

“This is a message from Daenerys Targaryen, the “mother of dragons”.” Jon informed those gathered with an audible stiffness. “She has crossed the Narrow Sea and arrived in Westeros. She has retaken Dragonstone and now makes her way to White Harbour, intending to discuss with me the future of the North.”

“Did she address you as King?” Ser Davos inquired, his speech tight at the news of Dragonstone’s fall.

“No.” Jon admitted blankly. “She referred to me as _Jon Stark_.” 

“I suppose she isn’t calling you a bastard, at least.” Sansa mused thoughtfully.

“Will you go, your grace?” Davos questioned quickly.

Jon shrugged offhandedly. “I don’t think I have much of a choice. Not if she truly has three dragons, as the singers claim.”

“I thought the Dragon Queen was a myth.” Meera Reed chided cautiously. 

“She’s no myth.” Arya added suddenly. “Even in Braavos her name could be heard on the streets, and many claimed to have seen her with their own eyes in Meereen.”

Sansa glanced at Jon fiercely. “If you’re going to White Harbour I’m coming with you.”

Jon considered her for a moment before answering. “I’d appreciate that. I’ll need your skills at diplomacy.” He admitted sincerely, causing Sansa to smile back at him. 

“Pardons, your grace, but you haven’t much time for such a trek...not if you’re to be back in less than a month for the wedding.” Brienne chided with concern. 

“Then we’d best get going. Today, if possible.” Sansa mused quickly. 

Jon’s face creased in thought. “What about Winterfell?”

“Bran and I can keep an eye on things here.” Arya suggested helpfully. “I swear we can manage it.”

Jon glanced at his cousins doubtfully, but eventually nodded. “Alright. I suppose given the circumstances.”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Bran quipped profoundly. “There will be two. That’s better than we can say for most of the last couple years.”

Jon acknowledged him with a small nod. “We’ll leave the Stark forces behind, so the castle will not be undefended. Lady Brienne and Ser Davos can accompany us; all else should remain behind so the party stays small.” he decided. “We leave as soon as possible.”

Davos nodded approvingly. “Spoken like a true king, your grace.”


	16. The Mother of Dragons

"Good news, your grace." Ser Davos muttered breathlessly as he rode back to Jon's side, returning from a brief scouting venture up a nearby rise. "I can see the shining waters of The Bite in the distance."

Jon nodded in approval. _We've made excellent time._ He mused amiably. _The weather has been fair and the going has been easy._

He, Sansa, Davos, Brienne, and Podrick had departed Winterfell six sunrises past. A quick set of goodbyes and a brief loading of their horses with the essentials for the journey had been the only prelude to departure. Among his few chosen possessions to bring along Jon had included the letter from his mother. In all likelihood the truth would come forward at some point in conversation with the Dragon Queen, and should such a situation arise the evidence in the letter would prove invaluable.

Jon felt uneasy about leaving Bran and Arya alone at the castle, but he comforted himself with the notion that they'd been left with an entire army for defense.

_If anyone should worry it's us, travelling exposed as we are along the White Knife._

The wandering party had spent the last six days trekking alongside the slow-flowing Northern river. Its surface seemed nearly frozen over except in small patches where the rapids chugged on stubbornly. In both daylight and darkness they travelled, stopping infrequently to pitch a trio of tents for a few hours' rest.

On this morn the shallow, half-hearted winter sun had risen above the lands to the east perhaps an hour ago, lending to the travellers a frail sort of light. Daylight seemed to be suffering a gradual, ominous death as winter found her footing. These days, Jon noted, the sun usually dipped below the horizon around late afternoon, and the days were only growing shorter.

Nevertheless, Jon felt that the journey was as pleasant as it might have been, since he was in the company of Sansa.

He relished the long days spent in the saddle riding by her side, and he cherished the chilly nights they spent together in their tent huddled beneath the furs.

Meanwhile, Brienne seemed to have fixed on he and Sansa an everlasting, watchful eye, reflective of one their mothers might have bestowed had they been present.

"It's like we're a pair of betrothed children under supervision from our parents." Sansa whispered irritably one night from within she and Jon's tent. "Honestly, what does she think we're going to do? It's much too cold to take anything off…" she added with a shiver, wrapping a blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Outside, Brienne seemed to have taken it upon herself to walk by the tent flap every five minutes or so, jangling her sword loudly. Inside, Sansa and Jon lay side-by-side under their furs, habitually comfortable in each other's company.

"There's something to be said for honour." Jon murmured with a tiny smile. "When the world seems to have so little of it left."

Sansa smiled at him coyly. "You and your honour. I cannot wait for the day when it's honourable for us to not have to hide anymore." she uttered briskly, her voice shaky with cold. She suddenly regarded him strangely, her forehead creasing in confusion. "How are you not cold?" she inquired curiously.

Jon shrugged, appearing bemused. "I suppose I'm used to it...from being up at the Wall."

Sansa considered him with a lofty smile. "That or you really are a Targaryen. Don't they have fire in their veins instead of blood?"

Jon emitted a small chuckle. "That too, perhaps." he mused.

Sansa's face grew serious, her eyes fixing thoughtfully on Jon's. "They say Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons, that she doesn't burn in fire, that she's freed a million slaves…" she muttered carefully, "...and that she's more beautiful than any woman alive."

"That can't be true." Jon declared simply.

"Why not?" Sansa muttered minutely.

"Because she cannot be more beautiful than you." he whispered gently.

Sansa stared back at him first with adoration, then with a ravenous yearning. She was strikingly attractive in such a form, with her eyes of sapphire fixed on Jon's own, her ruby lips parted, and her features goddess-like amidst the tent's dying candlelight.

"You're making this whole _honour_ scheme very difficult, Jon." She mused breathlessly, placing a gentle kiss on Jon's lips.

"Sorry." He murmured. "The feeling's mutual."

Sansa watched him intently for a moment before leaning aside to blow out the candle in a single breath. She laid herself at Jon's side, nestling close enough that even through her several layers of clothing she could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he drew forth each sleepy breath.

* * *

Sansa regarded the gates of White Harbour with wariness and fatigue.

_A week's worth of riding and we've finally made it_...she thought sullenly. _Pray this meeting proves efficient and productive so we might soon be headed home._

She cast a glance sideways at Jon, which he returned reassuringly from atop his handsome black stallion.

The city guards opened the gates hastily before them, sending a great hollow rumble rushing through the frozen ground under the horses' hooves.

With a small exhalation Sansa eased her silver mare forward and through the gates into White Harbour, sticking close to Jon.

Ser Davos, Lady Brienne, and the squire Podrick trailed them dutifully, the latter craning for a view of the city ahead.

White Harbour had always seemed a tidy city, as large settlements went, but its cleanliness seemed somehow heightened at the moment; no doubt the arrival of winter had scoured the streets of the poor and destitute…

This city of trade which straddled the mouth of the White Knife was the largest city in the North- the coastal gateway to the south and the Free Cities. White Harbour was comparable in size even to some of the larger settlements further south. However, the unyielding breath of winter seemed to have frightened off its lifeblood, leaving only a melancholy shell of a city behind.

Jon led his party purposefully through the cobblestoned alleys, heading for the waterfront, where in one of the city's oldest gathering halls they were to meet the Dragon Queen. There were few souls out traversing the thoroughfares, but those who were doing so paused without fail to regard Jon as he rode by atop his regal mount, donning imposing Stark garb.

_This is hardly a shadow of the vibrant city I visited two summers ago with father and Arya_...Sansa reflected sadly. _Because of winter the people hole up in their homes, the merchants and vendors have vanished, and the life has been sucked from the streets._

Only as they came within view of the harbour did Sansa begin to sense any sort of vitality from the deadened place. Here a few lowly sellers pedalled firewood, preserves, and furs, and beyond in the outer harbour a mighty ship with black and red sails had been anchored, its prow fitted with a crude icebreaker.

Sansa pulled up beside Jon and saw that his eyes were locked on the distant vessel. She cleared her throat tentatively. "Jon? Where is it we're going?" she interrupted, breaking him from his thoughts.

He glanced at her vividly. "It's...Stone Hall. That's what the...letter said." he uttered brokenly, his attentions obviously diverted. He gave a small shake of his head and seemed to refocus. "Have you been there before? I know you came to White Harbour some years ago with your father…"

Sansa gave an uncertain nod. "I believe so. It's just down the road from The New Castle, if I remember correctly." she added thoughtfully. "Follow me."

She led their party along the waterfront, passing quiet taverns, empty squares, and uninhabited brothels. The New Castle, the seat of House Manderly, soon rose in the distance against a slate sky.

On Sansa's left a long, step-laden ascent up White Harbour's main thoroughfare led to the castle's gates; at the other end of the street- where the cobblestones met the harbour- an ancient stone structure resembling a temple sat resolutely. It was there that Jon, Sansa, and their companions found themselves.

Sansa reined her horse to a halt in front of the weathered, white-marbled Stone Hall, taking in the strange collection of soldiers outside its archaic stone doors. Copper-skinned warriors in domed helmets carried long spears, and were draped inexpertly in furs and crude leathers.

_These must be the unsullied_...Sansa reflected with a shock. _Clearly they are soldiers of the sun and sand, not of the snow and ice._

To the soldiers' credit, they weren't displaying any discomfort, though Sansa suspected that each must be freezing in such scant dress against the harsh Northern winds.

_Daenerys Targaryen seems to travel well-defended._ Sansa noted internally.

At least a dozen unsullied manned the exterior of the Stone Hall alone. _Legions more fighters could be waiting inside, each one armed to the teeth._ Her thoughts added dryly. _I hope we have not made a terrible mistake in arriving so defenseless._

Sansa reassured herself that the Dragon Queen would be fair and honest; she had asked them here in good faith, after all.

Jon stepped forward to face the pair of guards positioned in front of the doors.

"I am Jon...Snow." He announced, hesitating consciously on his surname. "King in the North and ruler of Winterfell. I'm to see the Queen." He implored firmly.

"Who are these who follow you?" One of the stoic guards inquired in response, his thick eastern accent unmistakeable.

"This is Sansa Stark, Brienne of Tarth, Ser Davos Seaworth, and Podrick Payne." Jon informed the soldier coolly. "If you'd care to let us inside...we've had a long journey." He insisted more forcefully.

"Very well." The unsullied guard conceded dutifully. "Queen Daenerys waits inside."

He gave a small nod, causing two of his companions to begin forcing the stone doors ajar. They were suitably heavy, it seemed, as a great deal of effort was required on the part of the two soldiers to force them open.

Jon and Sansa dismounted their horses, mirrored quickly by Brienne, Davos, and Pod. Jon handed his reins to Podrick and instructed him to find a safe place for their mounts. Sansa noticed that he retrieved a scroll, no doubt his mother's letter, from his saddlebag before letting the horse be led away.

A moment later the remainder of the party proceeded through the aged stone entryway. Sansa found Brienne fixed to her side as soon as they entered the Hall, with a wary hand rested on the hilt of her sword, Oathkeeper. Davos trailed the group, wide-eyed and openmouthed at the sight they were met with in the Stone Hall's interior.

Unsullied soldiers lined the torchlit hallway, statue-like in their stillness. They hardly seemed to blink at Sansa and her companions' passage by.

The narrow corridor soon widened into an ample chamber with no windows, which was brightly lit by a substantial stone brazier at its centre.

Beyond the shifting outline of the flames Sansa observed a figure seated in an ancient stone throne.

_The Mother of Dragons._ She realized with astonishment. _The woman whose very existence has flourished into a sort of Westerosi legend._

Hesitantly, Brienne and Davos halted in the entranceway, sensibly allowing for Jon and Sansa to proceed forward to address the Dragon Queen alone.

The ancient Hall and its imposing throne room, Sansa remembered, was an archaic stronghold left behind by the First Men; it was thickly walled and unadorned, with only a few weathered stone carvings gracing the walls. Despite its unornamented appearance, the room was pleasantly warmed by the large central brazier and dozens of torches lining the walls, such that it retained heat more effectively than any modern castle would.

As a result of the pleasant climate it appeared that Daenerys Targaryen would be receiving she and Jon in a highly unseasonal sleeveless dark dress which harboured elegant layers of darkest blue and silver. A gleaming sterling necklace in the shape of a curled dragon adorned her pale neck, and her immaculate flaxen hair fell in shimmering waves over her shoulders. Even from across the room Sansa's insides writhed under her piercing violet stare.

_In appearance she's quite the opposite of Jon._ Sansa reflected thoughtfully. _Though I suppose I can see why the singers proclaim her to be in possession of empyrean looks._

More unsullied coated the throne room, and a small assembly of attendants stood behind Daenerys' throne. Sansa made out a tall, fawn-skinned girl with spiralling sable hair, an unsullied soldier donning leathers befitting a commander, and an all-too-familiar shorter individual.

To Sansa's great shock the attentive visage of Tyrion Lannister regarded her resolutely from behind the Queen's right shoulder, a lustrous golden hand of the king visible on his doublet.

Sansa stared at him in awe. Last she had heard, Tyrion had fled King's Landing after murdering his father- apparently his next move had been to take up with Daenerys Targaryen.

_He doesn't seem too surprised to see me_...she reflected curiously. _Evidently he was informed of mine and Jon's coming._

Jon himself was regarding the Mother of Dragons with a studying gaze. Sansa tried to understand his expression but found herself at a loss. She hoped that he wasn't too taken by her alluring facade.

_The Dragon Queen is your aunt._ Sansa wanted desperately to remind him, but her tongue was tied in their current situation.

The tall girl with the spiral hair stepped forward and called out sonorously, "You come before Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons."

"Welcome to White Harbour, your grace." Jon called levelly in response, his voice steady and regal.

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at him. " _Your grace_ ," she echoed fastidiously. "I wasn't sure you would adhere to such formalities, Jon Stark, seeing as you have also been crowned a king yourself."

"You are as much a queen as I am a king, your grace, and should be addressed as such. Though you should know that though I'm a Stark by blood, I am not one by name- not yet at least."

The Queen observed him with surprise. "You haven't been legitimized, then?"

"It's rather more complicated than that." Jon admitted simply.

"Then I suppose we have much to discuss." Daenerys mused royally.

Jon nodded and turned his gaze to Tyrion, whom, Sansa suddenly recalled, he had interacted with several years ago at The Wall.

"It's good to see you once more, Lord Tyrion." he implored slowly, having likely been caught just as off-guard as Sansa at the unexpected appearance of the man the stories referred to as "The Imp".

" _King_ Jon Snow, is it now?" Tyrion mused smartly. "Your circumstances have certainly improved measurably from when we last spoke."

"Aye- and I suppose I could say the same for you." Jon replied with a small smile.

The Imp's eyes suddenly found Sansa's, boring into her with heavy question and uncertainty. "And Lady Sansa…."He started awkwardly. "I'm glad to see you are well."

Sansa gave a tentative nod. "And you, my lord."

Tyrion returned what may have been a guilty smile. "I can see that not being married to me and finally escaping my beloved sister has done wonders for your fortunes." He mused with gentle teasing.

"I've just done the same as Queen Daenerys, my lord. I've reclaimed my home." Sansa replied, her voice tinged with a hint of fierceness.

The Dragon Queen regarded her with a fixed look- it might have been approval?

"Let us gather in the adjacent solar," Daenerys suggested firmly, as though there was little room for debate. "So we might properly discuss what has been and what will be done."

* * *

A moment later Sansa found herself seated at a great wooden table in the Stone Hall's solar, which was a sunken room with a low ceiling and a good deal less light than the main audience chamber.

Only one guard- the one in the commander's attire- had accompanied the Dragon Queen inside; he stood attentively against the back wall, watching. In other company, she kept only Tyrion and the copper-skinned girl who had declared her many titles.

Sansa was disturbingly aware of Brienne and Davos' entrapment back at the entrance to the main chamber; she and Jon were defenselessly locked inside the coffin-like solar with no escape or guard of any sort. Jon didn't even have his sword, as he had deemed it improper to carry a weapon inside the Hall for a diplomatic meeting.

_Calm down_. Sansa instructed herself firmly. _We aren't in danger here._

Jon sat attentively in one of the table's decrepit wooden chairs at her side. His hands were clasped on the tabletop before him, and he cleared his throat decidedly before speaking, his words blunt.

"So…" Jon began slowly. "Do you, or do you not intend to seize the Seven Kingdoms, your grace?"

Daenerys considered him with an airy expression. "I intend to take what is rightfully mine."

"With your dragons?" Sansa chided quickly, causing Daenerys to glance her way.

"With my dragons," the queen agreed haughtily, "and my armies."

Jon raised an eyebrow in tentative question. "Neither of which you appear to have brought North with you." he observed casually.

Daenerys shook her head, her shining waves of pale hair rippling in the firelight. "My forces remain at Dragonstone. I hardly wish to frighten all of Westeros before my true invasion has even begun."

Though Sansa experienced heavy relief at these words, she also noted a hint of unusual disappointment; she had apparently been quite excited about the possibility of seeing a dragon.

"Then you will be invading us eventually." Sansa mused factually, fixing Daenerys with a steely gaze.

"Of course." she answered firmly.

Jon sighed. "And what will become of the North when you do? Are we destined to bend the knee or else be burnt alive by dragonfire?"

"I suppose that depends." Daenerys declared provisionally.

"We have our own war to fight." Sansa interjected, regarding the Mother of Dragons coolly. "I don't know how much Lord Tyrion has told you, but the dead march on The Wall as we speak, and the North is all that stands between their armies and the rest of the seven kingdoms."

Daenerys nodded stiffly. "I know of the threats from beyond The Wall- which is why House Targaryen would ally itself with House Stark. Only with the support of your house and its vassals will I be able to simultaneously reclaim the iron throne while addressing the coming of The Others."

"There will be no burning in the North, we can assure you." Tyrion added with conviction. "The queen is well aware of House Stark's crucial role in the...shall I say _real_ war?"

Jon acknowledged Tyrion with a small nod. "But what of bending the knee? In exchange for not invading would you have my title?" he inquired seriously, his face strained.

Daenerys watched him thoughtfully for a heartbeat, her lips parted. "I should like to take some time to think about that-" she started, before being unceremoniously interrupted by the opening of the solar's door.

"I am sorry, my queen, but strange men have come. They insist they must see you now." An unsullied guard blurted apologetically. "They wait in The Hall."

Daenerys' expression soured. "Excuse me while I find out who has rudely decided to interrupt us."

She walked heatedly from the solar, trailed closely by Tyrion, who cast Sansa and Jon an apologetic glance. "It's most likely men wishing to join the Queen's cause. She receives many of the sort." he informed them hastily before exiting the sunken room. He and Daenerys left the door open such that Sansa could see out into the audience chamber. She regarded the scene with confusion.

In the centre of the Hall there appeared to be a cluster of a half a dozen men wearing heavy foreign armour, all of whom carried long, slender swords, certainly not of any kind which was commonly used in Westeros. Daenerys and Tyrion approached the horde, and the Queen began to converse exasperatedly with one of the men.

The bizarre soldier spoke a loud, rasping, nearly unintelligible form of the Common Tongue which was audible even from inside the solar. The man seemed to be repeating the word "gift".

After some time Tyrion marched briskly back toward the solar and fixed a befuddled gaze on Jon. "They seem to have been sent for you, King Snow. They claim to have a _gift_ for you...at least as best as we can understand." He muttered with chagrin.

Warily Jon rose, eyeing the horde suspiciously. "Who are these people? Why should there be any reason to trust them?"

"Truly there isn't," Tyrion admitted dryly, "though I worry what they might do should we refuse their request. They're quite heavily armed, you see."

"So are the Queen's unsullied." Sansa retorted skeptically. "Why did they let these men inside in the first place?"

Tyrion sighed. "I haven't had the chance to ask them yet."

"I'll go and see what this madness is about." Jon muttered dutifully. "Sansa, please stay-"

"Don't even try, Jon." she interjected immediately, brushing past him to march out into the Hall, such that he and Tyrion had to trail after her.

The foreign soldiers turned to regard Sansa as she strode towards them. The smallest of the bunch drew forward, reaching into his leathers to pull out a slender box.

_Yet another box_. Sansa's thoughts registered numbly.

Daenerys had stepped aside, and was watching the exchange curiously from a distance. Tyrion joined her.

The soldier raised the box reverently, holding it before him on his palms. Sansa tried to take a step closer, but Jon's arm barred her way. He had drawn up to stand beside her, and cast her an anxious glance of warning as he stopped her.

_Something's not right_. His eyes seemed to scream.

Subconsciously Sansa began to breathe more quickly, her heartbeat speeding and her face growing cold as she cast a nervous glance back at the six soldiers. With a jolt of panic she realized that all of the men's eyes were fixed intently on Jon, and that their hands had gone to their scabbards.

The world seemed to falter for an instant, lurching suddenly into slow motion as the small man with the box slid away the wooden lid, sending it clattering to the floor; it struck the stone below with an echoing slam.

Inside the shallow box a silver dagger lay on a bed of velvet. In a swift and calculated motion the soldier drew the blade upright, holding it above his head.

Peripherally, Sansa sensed Daenerys' mouth fly open in surprise, and thought she could see Tyrion's eyes widen. Beside her she felt Jon's body tense.

As if functioning on heightened senses, Sansa realized preeminently what the man holding the dagger was about to do.

Her ears heard the soldier bellow, in perfectly clear Common Tongue, _"For House Bolton!"_.

Her eyes saw the man let the dagger fly, its tip and hilt chasing one another through the air as it soared toward Jon.

Her feet urged her sideways, lurching her body forcefully into the blade's deadly path...

...and her senses shuddered collectively as she felt the dagger cleave her gut, lodging itself steadfastly above her hip.


	17. The End Of The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An advance is made. An alliance is forged. Some wine is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter :p
> 
> I know what happened was a little cliche but my mental storyboard necessitated it, so it happened.
> 
> Also I apologize that this one's not quite as long, but that's the price of quicker turnover- it seemed a decent spot to pause anyways. Please let me know what you think of the dialogue in this one- is it at least semi-believable? I found it both difficult and enjoyable to write so hopefully it turned out okay. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Side Note: I promise we're swiftly moving closer to a long-awaited Jonsa wedding, if that encourages anyone to keep reading :)

With a sickening lurch in his chest, Jon registered Sansa's body materializing in front of his own. He saw her torso quiver, and heard her emit a faint cry of discomfort.

The audible tick of Jon's own heartbeat grew deafening in his ears, blocking all other sounds.

_Please don't let it be true. Let my eyes be lying. Let this be a nightmare._ He pleaded shakily, unsure to whom he was sending his desperate pleas.

_There are no gods. There is only life, and death._ Jon reminded himself sickeningly. _Gods would not have allowed this to happen..._

Before him, Sansa's shoulders were trembling. She turned slowly to face Jon, wearing an expression of anguish and- to Jon's utter despair- definite fear.

The hilt of the silver dagger protruded from her midriff, shifting languidly in her flesh as she drew ragged breaths.

A terrible ring of blood had begun to seep from the blade's base, quickly consuming Sansa's midsection and staining her dress-front deep crimson. She swayed on her feet, her eyes growing glassy.

As Jon lunged forward, taking her body in his arms, he found himself suddenly transported back to Castle Black. There was snow underfoot, a battle raged all around, and he held another body to his chest, her lifeblood draining before his eyes…

_…"You know nothing, Jon Snow."_

With wide, frightened eyes, Jon watched Ygritte's body morph into Sansa's. He gasped as her cerulean irises stared up vividly into his own. Her visage had whitened to the shade of snow.

"You can't leave me." He stammered brokenly, frozen in place. "Not again."

"Your grace?" A timid voice interjected. "I can help her, if you would like." She proposed calmly amid the growing tumult all around.

It was the curly-haired girl who attended Daenerys; she had found her way to his side somehow, despite the fact that following the release of the dagger chaos had split the chamber open and a fight had incited. Jon noticed that Brienne and Davos had materialized in the fray, now carrying weapons. Daenerys and Tyrion were obscured within the frenzied fighting.

"Do everything. Everything possible." Jon stated rapidly, his eyes wild. He held Sansa closer. Her beautiful eyes had now closed and her breaths had grown fainter.

"Who are you?" Jon added quickly, not moving his gaze from Sansa's face.

"Missandei of Naath." The girl replied calmly. She proceeded to rip away a long stretch of her own dress' hem, laying it on the stone floor.

Missandei placed her hands gingerly on the hilt of the silver dagger. She lifted her eyes to meet Jon's own. "I'm going to pull it out- keep her still." she muttered, businesslike in her demeanour.

Jon nodded faintly, gripping Sansa's body more tightly.

The handmaiden exhaled and drew the dagger out from its hold above Sansa's hip, laying it carefully on the ground with a clatter, its blade stained with scarlet blood.

Jon found himself deaf to the sounds of fighting nearby. His eyes were locked on the alarming pool of blood over Sansa's stomach, which began to spread more rapidly once the blade had been removed.

With an anxious exhalation, Missandei pressed the cloth from her dress to the wound; the light blue fabric becoming immediately saturated with blood.

"We must get her away from this place. To the Queen's ship perhaps? It would be most safe." the handmaiden suggested imperatively.

Jon had reservations about he and Sansa shutting themselves on board Daenerys' boat, given how little he knew the Dragon Queen, but it seemed the safest option at the moment.

"Aye." He agreed reluctantly. "Let's get her out of here." he added weakly, his voice flat.

* * *

A few minutes later, Jon sat despondently in one of the fancier cabins on Daenerys' warship, _Fire._

Jon had never had much like for ships; he detested their unquenchable stench and small, dark spaces, but _Fire_ seemed luxuriously appointed and airier than most. The vessel smelled new, as though her wood had yet to rot with moisture, and the rats had yet to take up residence.

Sansa lay still before Jon on a pallet of soft, exotic fabrics. Her chest rose weakly but measuredly, her abdominal wound now cleaned and wrapped in a blood-spattered dressing. Her eyes were shut passively to the world as she rested.

_Beautiful, even in this weakened state, and braver than ever for her unwarranted sacrifice._ Jon thought subconsciously as he sat silently by Sansa's side. He took her hand gently in his own, just as she had done as he'd lain bedridden following Robin's tourney.

_Why does the world see fit to try so desperately to separate us?_ Jon thought despondently. His spirits sank as he reflected on how close he'd come to losing Sansa.

_A foot higher and that dagger might've pierced her heart; I would be kneeling by her corpse right now_...He realized anxiously, his stomach turning at the thought.

Jon's eyes instinctively found the place where Sansa's flesh had been torn open- a thick layer of cotton fabric was all that was holding her lifeblood beneath her skin.

Across the cabin Missandei washed her hands at a basin, cleansing them of blood.

Jon turned sullenly to regard the handmaiden. "Thank you. For saving her life." He implored weakly. "I'm sorry I wasn't more helpful…"

Missandei gave a gentle, comforting smile. "You did plenty, your grace. You were in shock."

Jon sighed and fixed his eyes once more on Sansa. They were drawn away once more an instant later as footsteps sounded in the hallway. He turned to regard Daenerys standing in the doorway; she had halted cordially, hesitant to step inside.

"If I might have a word." She muttered softly, her stare plagued by both purpose and guilt.

Reluctantly Jon nodded and let Sansa's hand fall. He traversed the floor and followed Daenerys out, passing Lady Brienne standing guard outside Sansa's cabin, and wandering down the ship's narrow central hallway toward the stern. The Dragon Queen drew up in front of a large oak door, which she opened without hesitation. Together they entered a very large cabin, which Jon presumed to be her own.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Daenerys turned to face Jon with a melancholy gaze. "I'm sorry about what happened." She stated quietly. "I swear I had no part in any of it."

Jon regarded her coldly. "I may be inclined to believe you, but that does not excuse what happened." he uttered decidedly.

"It never should have occurred." Daenerys agreed, her voice stricken with anguish.

"What became of the miscreants who did it?" Jon pressed emotionlessly, a strange, violent desire for vengeance sucking the usual humanity from his voice.

Daenerys observed him tersely. "They tried to slash their way out, but were overwhelmed by my soldiers. I have had them locked in the brig below, and ensured that they are well guarded." She opened her mouth as though to continue, but paused, considering her words carefully. " I feel as though it is your right to administer their justice."

Jon's eyes seemed to flash with acrimony. "I would have been very displeased had you not felt so." he muttered blankly. "Though I can promise you that I will not end their lives without knowing who sent them here."

Daenerys watched him puzzledly. "Then you don't believe they are truly Bolton men? That they simply came seeking vengeance for their dead House?"

Jon shook his head sharply. "Near every Bolton soldier has been eliminated- either in the Battle for Winterfell or else at the swords of my bannermen in its aftermath. It's highly improbable that six would have escaped. No Lord in the North would have sheltered them."

"So you think it's all a ruse." Daenerys quipped shrewdly. "That they were sent to...assassinate you by someone else?"

"I believe so. There are several who might be responsible." Jon suggested lamentably.

Daenerys wandered over to a table bearing wine and several chalices. "You can find out whom in the morning, then. In the meantime you and your companions are welcome to take your rest on my ship- I promise it will be safe this time- and at dawn tomorrow I'll ensure you're given your due time with the prisoners." she muttered smoothly. "Wine?" she added briskly, holding up a bottle of Volantene red.

Jon was about to refuse, but reconsidered as he noted the blissful ignorance that might be found at the bottom of his cup. He nodded slowly, and Daenerys passed him a filled chalice.

He noted that the sky outside was darkening to deep purple, nightfall approaching with its usual steadiness to bathe the city in shadows.

Across the room the Mother of Dragons took a long sip from her goblet before studying Jon intently. Her eyes seemed to skim his body from the ground up. "I truly am remorseful that our day of treating was not more pleasant or...productive." she mused thoughtfully, a hint of scheming audible in her eloquent words.

She seemed to have transformed from diplomatic to charming in the course of an instant- Jon felt uncomfortably trapped at this notion, shut inside her cabin as he was.

He watched her tentatively. "I consider it satisfying enough to know that you won't be annihilating the North, your grace. As you can see from what happened to Lady Sansa, we have problems enough of our own at the moment." he decreed seriously.

Daenerys smirked and took another sip of her wine, placidly stepping a few strides closer to Jon.

"I will hardly destroy that which I can just as easily take as an ally." she chided.

Jon felt his heart race faster at her choice of the word take. He felt her eyes on his face and resisted temptation to look away.

"I'm sure you will be able to win many allies in Westeros, your grace." he muttered dutifully. "And they will be better for it."

She sampled her wine once more and strode even closer, such that she was only an arm's length from Jon.

"Perhaps." she murmured restrainedly. "Though I doubt any of them will be as handsome as you."

* * *

Daenerys had seen many men in the last several years, and without question nearly all had hastened to fall at her feet after a single introduction, without her lifting of a single one of her fingers. She was used to having any man she could possibly want. She knew she commanded respect, even adoration. She knew that men flocked to her side like birds to feed. She knew men to offer her their swords, to pledge her their lives, to hand her their hearts. She had expected the Northerner calling himself "King in the North" to be no different.

_Perhaps if he's half-decent I might consider taking him for my husband._ She had assumingly thought the morning before his arrival. _In one union I could unite the North and South, all with not a drop of blood being shed._

Then Jon Snow had marched through the gates of the Stone Hall. He'd proven more than half-decent; in fact he'd found his way immediately onto a rather exclusive mental list of men whom Daenerys actually fancied.

_A fine, well-muscled warrior with sharp features._ She'd decided immediately, as soon as her eyes had found his form across the audience chamber. _Lustrous hair the shade of a raven's wing. Inky dark eyes like a stretch of starless sky._

Daenerys would have liked to think herself beyond simple visual infatuation, but she'd had to admit a growing captivation as she found her gaze straying to the Northerner's handsome face several times throughout their conversation in the solar.

Unfortunately, the violent invaders flinging a dagger into the Stark girl's belly had thrown a literal wrench into her developing plans. Daenerys had worried that the Starks would be unforgiving and quick to leave, but to her great pleasure they would at least be remaining for the night.

She'd allowed Jon reasonable time with Sansa before drawing him into her room. She'd then pressed onto him her apology, sharing her genuine guilt.

Daenerys had expected him to become receptive, to shed the sultry and honourable mask he seemed to wear, but he'd so far proven a difficult man to break.

_Perhaps it's his grief and shock._ She'd told herself stubbornly. _Most men would have surrendered by now._

She'd handed him wine, which he'd accepted in a humble, modest, and alluring sort of way.

_That ought to awaken his urges._ She'd decided triumphantly.

She'd pressed herself closer to him, instilling upon him her presence- considered by some men to be a gift in itself- but still he remained closed...almost dutiful.

_How strange it is, to be inciting things myself._ She'd reflected curiously. His reluctance seemed almost to act as her fuel.

Now she leaned closer to him, such that she had a direct view into his striking dark eyes.

_It's now or never._ She thought stubbornly.

Daenerys ignored the cornered look on Jon's face and inclined forwards, intending to press her lips to his…

* * *

Jon held out an impulsive and jerky hand to the Dragon Queen's chest, such that it halted her advance. Her expression tightened in surprise as she registered her own failure to kiss him.

"I'm sorry, but I...can't." Jon stammered unevenly.

"Why not?" Daenerys murmured quizzically, placing a gentle, longing hand against his chest.

Jon felt as though his flesh were burning where her hand made contact, and swallowed uncertainly. He reached a weary hand beneath his leathers to draw out his mother's scroll. "Because of this." He muttered simply.

Daenerys raised an eyebrow at him as he placed the parchment in her hand. She unrolled it slowly and began to read. Jon watched her eyes move across the paper, absorbing his mother's last words.

Her expression hardly changed as she proceeded through the letter's contents, though she swallowed weightily as she finished reading, and lowered the scroll with an audible exhalation.

"You're a Targaryen." She mused firmly, setting her piercing gaze on Jon once more. Her features were fierce and inquiring.

"Half Targaryen, half Stark." He replied candidly. "We're kin."

"If this is the truth, then you are the single greatest threat to my throne." She answered coldly.

Jon shook his head quickly. "I don't want the iron throne, I can promise you." he assured her immediately.

Daenerys observed him with disbelief and uncertainty. "I thought I was the last of my House."

"And I thought I had no House." Jon admitted begrudgingly. "For my entire young life. I was raised a bastard."

The Queen took a lengthy swig of wine, regarding Jon thoughtfully. The fierce intent with which she had regarded him moments ago- which Jon now recognized as lust- had not entirely disappeared from her gaze.

"It's not off the table you know, you and I." Daenerys mused slyly. "Technically for an aunt to marry her nephew would not be forbidden in our family."

"I'm already in love with another." Jon interjected quickly.

Comprehension seemed to dawn in the Dragon Queen's eyes. "That explains things." she muttered half-exasperatedly. "Who is it?"

"Sansa."

"Your sister?" Daenerys quipped, slightly taken aback.

Jon gave a tiny smile at the question he was all too accustomed to hearing. "My cousin, actually."

The Queen gave a concessive laugh. "You really must be a Targaryen." she mused teasingly. Her laughter then trailed off and her expression grew suddenly serious. "I suppose it's for the best. Our marriage would have meant the end of the Targaryen line."

Jon stared at her quizzically.

Daenerys sighed and recited, _"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before."_ She finished heavily. "A _maegi_ spoke these words of my dead husband. Apparently I am barren."

Jon regarded her regretfully, unsure how to respond. "I'm sorry." He muttered eventually.

"There's nothing to be done. The past will not be changed." She mused pensively. "At least now I know that my House is not destined to disappear once I'm laid into the ground."

Jon's found himself surprisingly caught at Daenerys' words. _I hadn't thought of such things._ He realized with a start. "But what if Sansa's wounds have left her unable to bear children?" he inquired nervously.

"Would it change the way you feel about her?" Daenerys murmured gently.

Jon shook his head. "No."

"Then don't spend your time worrying about it." She advised prudently. "If you're meant to father children then whichever god is in charge will see that it happens."

_Except that there are no gods._ Jon responded internally. He decided not to share this train of thought with Daenerys.

"Will you marry soon?" She asked him flatly, yanking him from his thoughts.

"In just over a fortnight."

The Mother of Dragons sighed and gave a regretful smile. "I would have liked to have been there. Unfortunately I intend to be marching on King's Landing by then."

Jon regarded her with surprise. "You plan to usurp Cersei Lannister so soon?"

"It's not usurping if it was your throne in the first place." Daenerys replied slyly, taking a sip of wine.

"I suppose you're right." Jon conceded with a nod. "What does all this mean, then...for our alliance."

Daenerys watched him carefully. "I won't go to war with my own family." she noted decisively. "I think I'll even let you keep your crown, for the time being. If having a king will strengthen the North's resolve against the White Walkers then I won't dissolve be dissolving its throne."

Jon nodded, internally euphoric at this turn of events. "And will you join us? When the real war does come?"

Daenerys smiled coyly at him. "If the North is to ever be my kingdom, don't you think I have a duty to defend it?" she suggested casually.

The Queen stepped forward to stand once more before Jon. "I swear on my honour as a Targaryen that when the North rides into battle, I will be at its side."

"And on the back of a dragon." Jon added reverently. "If the legends are to be believed."

Daenerys nodded. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."


	18. He Who Passes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon administers justice. Sansa awakens.

It took Sansa several hours to awaken, and once she did she felt immobilized by her own pain. The slightest shift of her midriff seemed sufficient to tear apart her body's delicate attempts at weaving new flesh, sending trails of blood trickling down her side to meet the sheets.

The image of the silver dagger twisting through the air to meet her gut was burned into the back of her retinas. Sansa could still see the lock of horror on Jon's face as she had turned to regard him with a knife in her stomach. She could still feel his arms cradling her body as she fell.

The rest was oblivion. She had awoken on the strange ship- presumably the one with dark sails which they had seen earlier in the harbour- with no idea how she had gotten there. She had opened her eyes to find only more darkness.

_Am I blind?_ Sansa had wondered frantically. _Or dead?_

She had tried to call for Jon, but her weakened voice would only allow for a strangled cry. Her heart had raced frantically. She had tried to sit upright, but found herself silently screaming in pain. She'd pressed a shaking hand to her wound, and felt faint as it came away slick with blood.

"Sansa." Jon had whispered, his voice thick with concern. "It's alright. You're safe now."

She had strained her eyes in the direction of his voice, and experienced heavy relief as a human outline began to be discernible against the gloom.

_I still have my sight, at least. It must be night-time._

Sansa had felt Jon take her hand, but that was the last sensation she remembered before she had promptly slipped back out of consciousness.

The next time she had woken, the faintest glow of light had bathed the tiny cabin. Jon had left her, but Daenerys' handmaiden had sat attentively in a chair across the room, watching her calmly as she mended the hem of a dress.

_Missandei_ , Sansa would learn was her name. She and Jon diligently kept her company through the entire morning. Each time Sansa woke the chamber was a little brighter and her bandages were a little less bloodstained.

The fourth time Sansa woke her head had grown clear, and sitting upright did not send a torrent of blood gushing out of her abdomen.

"I take it you're feeling better, my lady?" Missandei called softly.

"Very much. Thank you." Sansa rasped, her voice still somewhat hollow. She held up a shaky hand before her face, appalled by its paleness.

_Fairer than snow._ She observed wistfully. _Snow...Jon!_ She thought with a start.

Impulsively, Sansa swung her legs over the edge of her sleeping pallet and made to stand, but no sooner had she risen than her vision started to twist and distort, its edges consumed by ethereal splotches of shadows.

She staggered on her feet and was eased gently back into her bed by Missandei.

"I want to see Jon." Sansa rasped willfully.

The handmaiden smiled sympathetically at her. "You've lost a lot of blood. You need more rest."

"What I need is to see him." Sansa pleaded beseechingly. "Where is he?"

Missandei watched her tentatively for a moment before speaking slowly. "He's administering justice to the men who did this to you."

Sansa shut her mouth and sat still, breathing heavily.

"Might I speak to Queen Daenerys, at least?" She inquired carefully.

Missandei sighed. "I can see if the Queen is busy. I make no promises, though." she conceded. With a little bow she left the room, leaving Sansa even more alone than before.

* * *

Jon marched down into the bowels of the ship, flanked on either side by unsullied soldiers. He had re-tethered Longclaw to his hip, and the sheathed blade now swung emphatically against his leg with every step.

He wore a severe, punitive expression, and walked more mechanically than usual. His current rhythm was one which in his past life at The Wall had been reserved for carrying out death sentences.

_He who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

His father- or rather, _uncle's_ \- words rang poignantly in his ears.

_What would Ned have said of the revenge I'm seeking?_ Jon wondered astutely. _He lived for lawfulness and honour- was retribution the same as justice, in his eyes?_

Strangely, Jon found he had little care for honour at the present moment. Much as his morality had fled as he'd beaten Ramsay Bolton's face to a pulp, his sense of righteousness seemed overshadowed by vengeance at present.

_I will learn what coward sent these miscreants to take my life, and I will destroy them for nearly taking Sansa from me in the process._

The unsullied emitted Jon into a dark, half-barred off chamber at the back of Fire's basal level. Behind the iron bars sat the six attempted assassins, their faces drawn beneath hoods as they slouched in the shadows. Their wrists had been manacled immovably to the walls.

"Hello, King Snow." One of the prisoners mumbled sultrily.

Jon did not reply, but stood before the cowering men in the cell's entryway as the unsullied unlocked and opened the door. He stepped inside the brig and shut the railed iron door smoothly behind him.

Very slowly he drew forth Longclaw, drawing out the sharp unsheathing sound for as long as possible.

"None of you will live to see sunset, for what you've done." Jon mused malevolently He fixed his eyes imposingly on each of the prisoners in turn. He stalked slowly closer to the skulking lumps, his gait a measured prowl like that of a wolf on prey. "Death is the penalty for an attempt on a king's life."

"Can we be sure you really are a king? Last I'd heard you were just a northern bastard- a _Snow_." One of the prisoners spat crudely.

"And anyways how's you to know tha' we weren't aiming for the girl in the first place?" One of the scoundrels added gruffly.

"If that's the case then there's all the more reason for you all to die." Jon shouted authoritatively, stepping forward to press the tip of his sword to one of the trash-talking prisoner's chests. "Only cowards would agree to hunt and kill an innocent."

"But is she though?" One of the men chuckled fastidiously. "An innocent? Ain't she the one that assassinated the bastard king down in the capitol some moons past?"

"I'm not here to listen to a bunch of miscreants spout lies about Lady Sansa." Jon bristled callously. He drew a few heavy breaths to calm himself and set upon his quarry a steely gaze. "I know that you are all just puppets in a greater lord's hands, but now, despite it being beyond the mercy which you deserve I will offer you all a choice which pertains to each of you alone, not your benefactor." He seethed flatly.

The heads of the hired assassins seemed to turn as one to face Jon's direction.

"Make no mistake." Jon muttered coldly, eyeing the men purposefully. "I'm going to kill you. But you may choose whether to suffer a clean, painless death, or to watch as I spill your own entrails from your bodies, leaving you to bleed to an agonizing, lethargic end."

Jon let his sword hover around the circle of men, pausing on each of them in silent threat. "Tell me who sent you to kill me, and you will die with some of your honour intact. Deny me this request and you will soon be begging for my sword to meet your throats."

"What about the honour of the one who sent us?" A hooded prisoner jeered mockingly from within one corner. Jon noted his short stature and realized that it was the man who had thrown the knife. "I see no reason to betray a man who paid us good money if I'll be dyin' either way." He huffed indignantly. "I ain't scared of death."

Jon crouched before the one who spoke, his expression livid. "Everyone is scared of death." he mused coolly. "Except for me."

Wordlessly he pressed Longclaw's honed blade to the man's chest, slowly drawing a sharp gash down his sternum… _he deserves this pain for hurting Sansa._ He told himself resolutely. He felt as though he was watching someone else's hands carve a bloody gulley into the dagger-thrower's chest.

The prisoner cried out horrendously as the blade lacerated his skin. "ALRIGHT! STOP!" he howled. "STOP!"

Jon continued to press the blade downward. "The name." he uttered vehemently, his teeth clenched.

"BAELISH!" The man wailed. "PETYR EFFING BAELISH!"

His face blank, Jon lifted the sword. He paused only an instant before slicing the man's head from his body with one clean swing of his sword.

The other assassins were silent, though Jon could feel their eyes on his back. He turned to regard them indifferently. "Now would any of you care to elaborate? Or will I be carving each of your chests as well?"

* * *

Sansa thought she heard screaming from the depths of _Fire_ 's hull; she wondered whether Jon was the perpetrator, but found it difficult to picture him doing anything to a man which would make him utter such a noise. She shivered slightly at the thought, suddenly recalling how he had nearly pummeled Ramsay to death with his bare hands.

_He loses control when he's protecting me._ Sansa realized with a jolt. She felt empowered and warmed by his devotion, but also concerned by such a deviance from his usual character.

_Jon has always been so honourable- and he remains so nearly all of the time! But defending me seems to draw forth something from his depths...did he lose some piece of his humanity when he was resurrected?_

Sansa worried for several moments about such an idea, but comforted herself with her own logic.

_He does it all with purpose- to keep us safe. If destroying our enemies is the only manifestation of his trip to death and back then I have nothing to worry about. Jon is Jon._

She pictured his face swimming gently before her eyelids- his soft, gentle eyes and his warm, delicate smile framed by a handsome, familiar face- and could hardly imagine him partaking in anything resembling violence.

_A silly notion, Sansa. You've seen him fight. Jon's a valiant warrior- hardly a hapless, vain prince_. Her conscience noted stubbornly.

_But when he fights he's graceful, not violent. He doesn't kill for the sake of it; he rejects cruelty and torment. And he's very attractive to boot_. Her opposing thoughts echoed spitefully.

Sansa smiled at her own internal conflict. _I desire all of him- even any broken parts._ She decided contentedly. _Because in the damaged sense we match- scar for scar, flaw for flaw._

_Soon enough we shall have the chance to truly complete each other._

"-Sorry to keep you waiting." A stately voice interrupted apologetically, striking Sansa from her thoughts.

Daenerys had entered the cabin, now clad in an elegantly layered white dress. "I know you wanted to see...Jon, but he's preoccupied at the moment."

Sansa noted the Queen's hesitation to use Jon's name and wondered if he had already told her…

Daenerys took a graceful seat in one of the cabin's chairs and regarded her studiously. "I was recently made aware that you are to marry my nephew."

"So he's told you then." Sansa muttered brightly, arching her eyebrows in surprise.

The Dragon Queen smirked. "Only after I tried to kiss him." she mused slyly, inciting a rather cold look from Sansa. Seeing her distaste, Daenerys hurriedly apologized, "I didn't know- I would never have tried it had I been aware we're related."

"Forgive me, but isn't incest acceptable for Targaryens?" Sansa murmured flatly.

"I promise I will not be stealing Jon from you." She replied sincerely. "However enamoured with him I might have been his heart remains loyal to you."

Sansa smiled vicariously. "I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as we're to be wed."

Daenerys nodded, her face splendid. "I don't want you to see me as...competition." She chided cautiously. "I would like for us to be friends, or if not friends, at least allies."

Sansa paused a moment before replying. "I'd like that too."

The Mother of Dragons nodded. "Glad to know I'll have someone on the inside keeping my nephew in check."

Sansa nearly laughed. _If there's one person who doesn't need another to help him stay in check it's Jon._

"It's fitting, I think, that House Stark should be one of the first I align myself with upon returning to Westeros." Daenerys mused thoughtfully. "The last time Houses Stark and Targaryen united was when my brother started a war for your aunt. Now our houses are to be joined once more, and hopefully we will begin the gradual end to all the fighting…"

"But the fight has only just begun, your grace." Sansa muttered gravely. "Winter has come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody. Here's the thing- I looked at the date this morning and realized it's been nearly a week and a half since I last posted. Originally this snippet was only like 2/3 of the chapter, but that's all I finished last week before my studies consumed me! I've decided to go ahead and post it anyways (it's technically not as complete as I'd intended- sorry about that!) because I'm sorry to report that I'm now on a writing hiatus once more as midterms are upon me. :O
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to get back into writing once I'm off on break in a couple weeks, but it's hard when there's literally zero GoT exposure at the moment. (It's a loooong time still until season 7 )
> 
> So feel free to nag me in a fortnight or so to get writing again, but I make no promises. :( I want to finish this story, but I'm currently kind of mentally detached. Anyways, thanks a million to everyone who's been reading; I hope this fic helped to ease some of your GoT withdrawals somewhat.
> 
> Thanks for everything, and sorry that this may or may not be the end...(I'll decide later). ;)


	19. Mind, Body and Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A union is made before gods and men.

Sansa glanced into the mirror which was propped up before her. Her reflection was seated in her chambers at Winterfell, balanced statue-like in her weathered oak chair. Her carmine hair fell obediently in a gentle cascade upon her shoulders. The early afternoon light seemed to have set the strands on fire, surrounding her face in a sort of radiant aureole.

Sansa wore only undergarments- a pearl-coloured slip the same shade as Ghost's underbelly. Yet she did not shiver or tremble in the steely, frigid air. The cold of her chambers nipped at Sansa's exposed wrists and pale cheeks, but she did not waver, for internally she felt her heart pounding more vigorously than usual. Her lifeblood flowed more briskly through her veins, though not for fretfulness, worry, or strain.

For the first time in recent memory, Sansa's pulse quickened with excitement (and perhaps a miniscule amount of nerves). She observed that it was an unfamiliar feeling.

She stared forward paradoxically into her own azure irises and tried to decipher her thoughts. She had no intimation of how she was supposed to feel in this instant. She left her face a blank mask, her lips pressed blankly into a thin line.

_I have spent my final night in these chambers. _Sansa observed accordingly. _Tonight I will be married once more. _____

For a third time Sansa would be joined to another. However, she noted, this occurrence would for once not mark an end, but a beginning.

_The beginning of forever. _Sansa decided poetically, the edges of her lips curving upward at the thought.__

__Suddenly she knew how she would feel. She decided that happiness, if ever it existed in the first place, was hers in this instant. To have and to hold._ _

* * *

__"You'll catch a chill! On your wedding day!" Eva exclaimed sharply upon entering Sansa's wintry chambers. She observed that her Lady remained poised statuesquely in her chair in front of the mirror, unmoved since Eva had left her there at her own request nearly an hour past._ _

__"Forgive me, m'lady, but at least allow me to build you a fire-"_ _

__"I'm fine, Eva, though I thank you for your concern." Sansa replied levelly, her voice airy and thoughtful._ _

__Eva nodded and took several slow steps nearer to Sansa's chair. She studied her lady curiously, fixing her eyes on Sansa's vacant expression._ _

__"You're not...having second thoughts?" Eva muttered very quietly._ _

__Sansa turned her head gently to regard her trusted handmaiden with clear, concise eyes. "On the contrary...I believe that this might be the happiest I've ever been, at least since the day I made the mistake of leaving Winterfell."_ _

__Eva smiled and emitted a breath of relief. "Shall I take the liberty of fetching the other handmaidens, then so we can help you get ready?"_ _

__Sansa nodded and glanced back at her reflection. She straightened her figure and allowed herself a smile. She was highly wary of happiness, for it always left a deep crevasse when inevitably snatched away._ _

_"I'll protect you. I promise."_ Jon's words echoed in Sansa's mind. She wasn't sure she trusted them absolutely, for no one, even the gods, could protect anyone all of the time, though Jon's proclamation gave her comfort. Together they might enjoy a trickle of happiness, if even for a short while. 

___Please let it be so._ She prayed desperately. If ever anyone was owed by the gods, it was she and Jon.__

______Sansa's gaggle of handmaidens re-entered her chambers an instant later, laden down with fabrics and furs. She suddenly found herself without a moment's respite from attention for multiple long hours._ _ _ _ _ _

______The handmaidens gently stripped Sansa of her undergarments and bathed her slowly in a steaming tub. They dried the beads of water from her skin with pelts of winter rabbit furs. One brushed Sansa's hair until it shimmered splendidly with each stray beam of light._ _ _ _ _ _

______Eventually, her expression giddy and reverent, Eva pulled forth the gown that Sansa was to don before much of the North. It was a flowing masterpiece of grey and silver, intermixed with hints of green and blue mirroring the shade of Sansa's own eyes._ _ _ _ _ _

______Her last wedding gown, worn in her union to Ramsay Bolton, had been constricting and rigid in appearance. This creation had been designed by Sansa herself to emanate freedom and hopefulness._ _ _ _ _ _

______The handmaidens helped Sansa into her magnificent attire, marvelling at the wondrously warm and luxurious fabric. Delicately stitched images of direwolves and snow crystals had been sewn onto the fabric surface, blending seamlessly with the gown folds such that one had to look closely to fully appreciate their beauty._ _ _ _ _ _

______Eva deftly fastened a silver direwolf pendant around Sansa's neck, while another of her maidens wove a single, elegant braid into the top of her hair, leaving the bottom to hang freely around her shoulders._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sansa regarded her appearance in the mirror for a moment. She gave the maiden to her left a small nod, and the girl draped a long, silver fur cloak over her shoulders. The garment was crafted of a pair of direwolf pelts, and it was the only one of several ancient Stark wedding heirlooms that remained at Winterfell. All others had been destroyed or looted in the toils of the last several years. Sansa had recovered it from a locked chest in her father's solar, intent on carrying some piece of her heritage with her into the ceremony._ _ _ _ _ _

______The cloak was heavy despite its age; its ancient weight had rested on the shoulders of perhaps a hundred other Stark daughters before Sansa, only to be replaced before each ceremony's end by another house's colours._ _ _ _ _ _

_______Today shall be different._ Sansa reflected, staring into the depths of the silver fur. _I will remain a Stark even once married._____ _ _

__________On that note, Sansa gave a simple smile._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"It's time." she declared firmly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

__________"You look a proper Northern king, your grace. And the spitting image of your Uncle Eddard." Ser Davos mused, walking up to Jon atop Winterfell's battlements._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"I still don't feel that he was my uncle." Jon mused in reply. "It's more as though I had two fathers. But then," he added, thinking of Sansa, "it's probably best that Ned Stark remains my father in memory but not blood."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Davos nodded sagely and ambled to Jon's side. The pair surveyed the moor beyond, where most of the North seemed to have assembled for the impending ceremony._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"A wise choice," Davos decreed suddenly," to have moved things outside the castle. It'll be cold, but there isn't a chance in hell everyone would've fit inside your Great Hall."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jon stared straight ahead, his eyes travelling among his many subjects milling about below. "So many came."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"Indeed." Ser Davos agreed. "It's not every day the King In The North is wed."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jon glanced prudently at his advisor, his expression innocent. "Is it wrong I'm a tad nervous?" he wondered with a hint of a sheepish smile._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"On the contrary! Isn't a bloody man alive who wasn't shaking in his boots on his wedding day." Davos responded jovially._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jon nodded and smiled more openly. "Thank you, Ser Davos. For today and all you've done for this house."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Davos nodded appreciatively. "I've said it before and I'll say it again; you are the man who will lead us through the long night, so I will be at your side and in your service now, and always."_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The low croon of a hunting horn sounded in the distance, demanding Jon's attention._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________"That's the signal." He observed blankly. He cast Ser Davos a nod and marched briskly down the steps to the yard below, where Podrick the squire was holding his dark stallion, saddled ceremonially for the ride out to the moor._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Jon mounted and rode off at a slow walk, his men opening the gates rhythmically in his path. Tormund and Davos marched behind him, already trudging through snow up to their ankles._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

__________Sansa trailed Lady Brienne, who appeared finely adorned in ceremonial armour. Her protector rode a handsome grey gelding and carried a broadsword at her hip. A thick grey cloak shielded her face from the moor's winds._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Sansa herself strode along atop her silver mare, her own fur cloak already lifting in the breeze as she passed under Winterfell's main gate. Her gown streamed out like wings behind her, a billowing stream of alabaster cloth riding the frigid breeze._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ahead, Sansa narrowed her eyes against the ethereal golden light of a glorious sunset. It was only mid afternoon, but already the sun was dipping beneath the gentle slope of the snow-covered moor, leaving behind a magnificent spectacle of colour in the sky._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Reds, oranges, pinks, and blues had fanned across the heavens, weaving with the clouds in a parade of colour more stunning than the summer flowers in King's Landing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________A long aisle of white stretched out ahead of Sansa; a thick line of Northerners formed either side of Sansa's trail, many clutching candles or lanterns against the gusting flurries of snow. Their shadows hung long against the Earth, stretching in the dying light._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________All eyes were fixed on Sansa's lonely figure and the observers seemed to hush in her presence. Old women cried tears of joy; children reached their shivering arms forth in a silent acknowledgement to the passing almost-monarch; somewhere, someone breathed _"The North Remembers".____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Sansa's breath caught in her throat and she smiled, a single tear gently hugging her cheek in a silent trickle Earthward. The beautiful, haunting echo of an ensemble of wood flutes spun about in the wind, fashioning an ancient but familiar Northern melody too old to identify._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________In the distance she could see the banners of all the visiting Northern houses, nearly all who had ever sworn allegiance to House Stark, rippling in the face of the icy blast._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Sansa rode onward, her eyes adjusting to face forward, where for the first time she caught sight of Jon in the distance. His proud figure was dismounted from his horse and cut a welcoming shape against the vibrant sky._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She could not read his expression, but observed that he was regally dressed in her father's old ceremonial attire. A more pulchritudinous, majestic husband Sansa could not have dreamed up herself; this notion was cemented as Sansa drew close enough to lose herself in Jon's shining, stygian eyes. He did not appear bothered by the temperature, since he wore no cloak nor covered his head. To Sansa's delight his handsome raven hair was free, tossed about unrestrainedly in the wind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She dismounted carefully and made her way over to stand before Jon, the pair of them bathed in the fierce amber glow of the Northern sunset._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

____________There would be no septon, in honour of the old ways; however, the ceremony was not in the Godswood but out under the open sky, almost as though she and Jon were to appeal to forces older than the gods themselves. All of the North would pay witness. The situation suited both of them nicely, for Sansa was not apt to repeat anything from her last experience, and Jon had no great attachment to gods of any sort._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Their closest companions formed a broken circle at the crest of a gentle rise on the moor, and the noblest Northern lords and ladies made up the most immediate audience. The rest of the Northerners had formed the edges of a natural aisle, down which Sansa had trodden, goddess-like, past their outstretched arms._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jon unknowingly held his breath as she approached, her horse stepping gracefully through the drifting snow. Sansa seemed the most exquisite vision he had ever laid eyes upon in her silver gown, which billowed behind her magnificently. The shining light of sunset set her copper hair ablaze such that it rippled like flame against the coloured sky._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________As Sansa arrived at the crest of the gentle slope she slid gracefully from her horse, sending up a puff of snowflakes as she touched down. She immediately locked her azure gaze on Jon's, the startling shade of her eyes more beautiful perhaps than he had ever seen them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She took her place in front of Jon, and wordlessly they took each other's gloved hands._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________They began to exchange words, which had been scripted and debated for nearly a week in advance, that were both heavily traditional and entirely unique. There was no one to "give" Sansa, and there were no gods to address, in Jon's mind._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"I give myself to this man in mind, body and spirit." Sansa declared serenely, her voice carrying across the moors and back toward the ancient walls of Winterfell._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Jon willed his voice to remain clear as he relayed each response, his eyes hardly leaving Sansa's. The Northerners below watched raptly, many visibly tearful. Even Lady Brienne's face seemed to have softened at Sansa's side._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________As the light began to fade and the final spectacular flares of colour lit up the clouds above, they reached the end of the words that would bind them for eternity._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________"I am hers, and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days." Jon concluded profoundly, in unison with Sansa's identical words._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________As one, they leaned gently together to exchange a kiss. Jon felt a rush of panic as he recalled the hordes of watching Northerners, but he felt himself relax as soon as his lips met Sansa's. Their embrace was passionate but serene; it was both an important display for the Northern kingdom and an intimate moment that Jon would commit to memory for the rest of his days._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________As they separated, the observers broke into a rumbling cheer that spread like ripples across the snow. Somewhere in the distance, Ghost howled into the approaching night. However, Jon didn't hear a thing, for his eyes and attentions were fixed buoyantly on Sansa. The tips of his mouth curved upward in a timid smile, which she returned breathlessly, her porcelain skin flushed despite the cold._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Just as the last of the heavenly colour seemed to drain from the sky, Jon observed peripherally a sort of ethereal movement at the distant treeline. Perhaps it was the work of the advancing shadows, but he could have sworn that a quartet of wolves stood watching. Watchful sentinels at the edge of the wood offering a silent salute._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Four of them; one for Rickon, one for Robb, one for Catelyn, and one for Ned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_____________"We promise, we're watching."_ They seemed to say. _"From wherever we are. Always."_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I think I should probably explain myself. :p
> 
> I kind of thought I was done with this story, but all the Jonsa feels got reawakened with the hype for season 7 and I just had to write their wedding. Hope I've done it justice; please please please let me know what you think! Also I'd love to hear about how you would picture a Jonsa wedding since i'm curious to get some other takes on what could happen. This chapter is how I picture it, (literally I can see the scene vividly in my mind) and for the full experience, listen to "I am Hers, She is Mine" from the season 3 soundtrack as Sansa walks down the 'aisle'. :p
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this sequel/potential bridge to story continuation and thanks to everyone who has been reading! I might write more before season 7 but no guarantees!
> 
> Long live Jonsa!


	20. I Am Hers, and She Is Mine

The wedding feast was one for the ages. It was a raucous affair of staggering abundance despite the late winter hour of the ceremony. Every lord or lady with claim to some scrap of Northern land seemed to have crammed into Winterfell's Great Hall.

Outside, the night was inky black save for the fires and celebrations of the smallfolk on the moor. Inside, the Hall's golden torch lit glow illuminated the longtables, which were laden with such a mountainous heap of food that each one threatened to collapse under the strain. The situation was not helped by the regular slamming of tankards and goblets onto the ancient wooden surface with each passing toast.

Half a dozen kegs of White Harbour's finest ale had been squeezed into one of the Great Hall's shadowy corners. In the centre of the turmoil the wedding guests dined on moose, pheasant, deer and bear. A hearty array of vegetables had been scraped together from Winterfell's stores, seasoned with the most expensive of the castle's rather limited collection of spices.

Behind the High table, a looming mound of gifts was accumulating for the newlyweds. Luxurious furs, exotic artifacts, gleaming weapons, and well-preserved edible delicacies mingled in one enormous heap. The Northerners, who possessed very little as it was, had valiantly showered their monarchs with stunning gifts regardless.

Sansa eyed the pile in astonishment; she could hardly believe that such treasures even existed in the North, let alone that they should all have come to rest in Winterfell.

However, Sansa noted, the most valuable gifts of all rested not on the Great Hall's weathered stone floor, but on she and Jon's own heads and in a sizeable chest which had already been locked away in Winterfell's armoury.

Inside the sturdy chest rested a thousand dragonglass daggers; a gift from the dragon queen herself. Daenerys had recovered the obsidian weapons from Dragonstone's own abundant stores and sent them North to be hand-delivered by half a dozen Unsullied.

The daggers had also been accompanied by a pair of exquisite dragonglass crowns- a most luxurious expense on Daenerys' part. The regal headpieces- one thick and imposing and one slender and elegant- had been engraved with detailed images of direwolves and dragons. The shimmering obsidian had been inlaid with naturally-cut diamonds that sparkled in the light from any angle, evoking a sense of freshly fallen snow.

Jon's crown rested majestically atop his raven hair, perfectly fitted to the handsome summit of his head. At his side, Sansa's own slender crown contrasted sharply with her fiery hair as it balanced suitably on its surface.

Sansa liked the crown's weight; it was heavy enough to feel significant yet light enough not to be a burden. She cast her eyes upward at the tapestry that hung resolutely on the Great Hall's stony wall, and imagined that she and Jon appeared just as depicted on the fabric. She sat up straighter at the notion, smiling lightly to herself.

Sansa felt Ghost's warm weight shift at her feet. The ivory direwolf rested directly beneath Jon, keeping a ruby eye on passersby from beneath the tablecloth.

Jon noticed Sansa's eyes on the wolf and cast her a glance of his own, his eyes buoyant, warm and merry, yet relaxed. The edges of his lips formed an honest smile. His eyes had been fixed on Sansa in this way nearly all evening, in pride and disbelief.

She supposed that the whole situation was very strange to him; he must have been resigned to a lonely, unmarried life at the Wall.

 _How greatly his fortunes have changed._ Sansa thought quickly to herself, her own heart pounding in uncertain anticipation mingled with elation.

 _I am the Queen in the North._ She reflected suddenly, appreciating once more the weight of the crown on her head. _All my life I dreamed of being a queen, and now my childhood fantasy has come to life in the most unconventional way…_

Sansa observed that when she was a girl she had always anticipated leaving Winterfell to be married off elsewhere. Her childhood home was the last castle she had have ever expected to live out her days in- marriage into another house had always been inevitable.

Yet here she sat, a queen in Winterfell's own halls. A sweeter feeling she could hardly imagine.

Sansa met Jon's gaze breathlessly. _We are joined as husband and wife, and all the North has come before us to pledge its loyalty and celebrate our union. I am home and Littlefinger is nowhere to be seen. It truly is as though I am awake in a dream._

Indeed, it was an image of near-fantasy; singers strummed lutes and drummed softly in a corner, lords and ladies from every region of the North dined amicably together, and in the centre of the Hall the drunken lords Hornwood and Glover danced a ridiculous duet, sending Arya and Bran into uproarious laughter at Sansa's side.

She committed the moment to memory, such that when her situation soon soured (as it inevitably would) she might be able to draw forth traces of her current lighthearted happiness.

The scene playing out before Sansa made her warm from head to toe with pleasure, but however exciting and wonderful the pomp and circumstance of the feast might be, Sansa still found corners of her thoughts straying to the impending night. She wondered what Jon would expect of her. Grotesque memories snuck into her head, and she felt the scars of Ramsay Bolton's games burn beneath her gown from mere recollection.

 _Don't scare yourself, you're stronger than this._ She scolded herself firmly, casting a quick look in Jon's direction. _Besides, there's nothing to fear from Jon._

As if in silent response, Jon took Sansa's hand under the table at that instant, clasping his fingers gently around hers.

Sansa sensed his warmth against her palm and clung to it gratefully, letting it pull her mind back to the present celebration.

A sudden chiming rang out as Lyanna Mormont, the fiery young Lady of Bear Island, stood up in her chair and tapped her goblet with a spoon. The commotion quieted down for Lyanna, ushering in the beginning of what was likely another round of toasts.

"Your grace, your grace," the Lady began, her voice youthful but firm as she nodded at both Jon and Sansa in turn, "Lords and Ladies of the North," she added, turning to address the rest of the Hall, "I just want to say…that I am very proud of what we are celebrating today, and of how we are celebrating it."

The Great Hall stared up at her attentively, some of her audience nodding in agreement, all of them hanging on each of her well-measured words.

"We have crowned a new king and a new queen, and they are strong rulers to get us through the Long Night." Lady Lyanna continued, her gaze fierce. "We know this fact, and we unite here today, ready to meet whatever is coming, despite our differences." She noted decisively.

"Some of us have been enemies." She added, her eyes finding those who had recently fought for the Boltons in the Battle for Winterfell. "Some of us, against advice, have remained friends." She decreed prudently, casting an intentional smile at Jon up at the High Table. "But none of that matters. All that matters now is that the North Remembers- we remember that we have all suffered loss, that we have a common enemy, and that we follow House Stark unconditionally." she called clearly, her words now inciting cheers of approval from many of the tables.

"Those we've lost wouldn't want anything less." Lyanna declared definitively, her face falling slightly in reverie, likely with thoughts of her own mother. "So, I propose a toast and a promise to them, and to our newly joined king and queen, to never again let our enemies divide us."

At this statement, the hall members cheered and raised their goblets.

Lyanna turned her eyes to Sansa and Jon and trilled clearly "to the end of divided days' past and the beginning of united days' future!"

The Hall echoed her words agreeably, many voices slurred with drink. The Lady Lyanna resumed her seat with a contented smile, and another Lord rose to take her place, continuing the train of toasts relentlessly.

The night drifted onward in this way; it was a happy haze of celebration and hopefulness, interspersed with poetic salutes to the North, the coming war, the sorrows of years past, the new monarchs, the new monarchs' future offspring, the large white direwolf under the High Table, and other more ridiculous subjects.

As the last of the food disappeared and the last gift was presented, the Hall began to grow restless.

 _"A bedding."_ Sansa heard someone whisper.

_"A wedding needs a bedding."_

_"The true test."_

_"The_ real _marriage."_

_"The bedding will be soon, best finish your drink."_

_"It's customary."_

Sansa grew terribly nervous at all the chatter. She felt suddenly much colder and worried if she was breaking into a visible sweat. She daren't look over at Jon, for the knowledge that he would easily read the fear in her expression. She felt her scars tingle once more with a horrid freshness as though she had suffered them last week rather than several moons ago.

 _What if he doesn't fancy me anymore once I'm laid bare and scarred before him._ Sansa wondered suddenly. It was a new and frightening thought; one which she immediately thrust stubbornly from her mind. _I mustn't think that way._ She urged silently. _I pray, let my mind go blank, for I am riddled with dark memories and thoughts._

With new horror, Sansa observed that several Lords had risen, chanting, and were making their way toward the High Table. She felt Jon shift in his seat at her side but still resisted the temptation to look his way.

Sansa wanted to scream as the Northern Lords seized her playfully from her chair, lifting her above their heads. The room seemed to blur as she was paraded down the hall. Surely Jon was behind her, being dragged forth by Northern Ladies. However, in the chaos she could scarcely tell up from down, let alone get her bearings in the room. All that seemed to exist was riotous chanting of _"bed the bride!",_ distant music, and her own fear.

No one seemed to notice Sansa's distress, so wrapped up as they were in hauling her upward to the Lord's chambers (or rather, Jon's chambers). At some point, she sensed that they had halted, and felt herself land on the familiar downy furs of Jon's bed. She collapsed gratefully onto the soft surface, burying her head for an instant in its gentle folds.

Sansa's stomach sank even further as she felt someone take hold of the fabric of her dress. She was back in Ramsay's chambers. He was about to rip the gown from her body. She was about to relive her nightmarish last wedding night, and her body was hollow and shaken with fear at the thought.

Suddenly, she heard a blessed, familiar voice calling firmly but not unkindly "Everybody out."

Sansa felt the hands holding her gown let go, releasing the luxurious fabric with small uttered protests. She heard those who had hauled her in shuffle out the heavy oaken doors, singing and chiding drunkenly as they went. The frenzied giggles of the Ladies mingled with the hearty bellowing of the men in an unpleasant cacophony which, thankfully, diminished quickly as they were ushered out into the hall.

Sansa heard the heavy doors of Jon's chambers seal with a weighty thud that reverberated gloomily off the walls.

The room sank into a peaceful silence; even the rumble of the distant celebrations in the Great Hall was quashed by the chamber's thick stone walls. Sansa felt Jon sit slowly on the bed beside her, his weight a respectful distance from where she lay with her face pressed anxiously into the furs.

"Sansa." Jon whispered gently, his voice deep and soothing to Sansa's ears. "It's okay." He promised softly, placing his hand delicately on top of where hers lay on the furs.

Cautiously, Sansa raised her head, lifting her eyes to meet Jon's sultry dark gaze.

"We don't have to do anything." He insisted quietly. "I won't make you. Not ever."

Sansa felt her chest lighten considerably, her eyes softening as she met Jon's eyes silently for a long moment. He stared innocently, kindly, _handsomely_ back at her.

She exhaled a gentle breath, appreciating how differently she felt now that they were alone together. No more duty; no more pressure; no more hordes of wild Northerners. Simply she and Jon.

_Just as it was in the cave…and in every night we've spent together already…except that this time we may do anything we like._

Sansa was not used to having control of situations. Jon had startled her by offering her a choice, a concept that had proven scarce in her life as of late.

After a long silence in which Jon could only guess at what Sansa was contemplating, she opened her mouth to reply.

"Then it's a good thing you won't have to make me." She whispered quietly, sitting upright to crawl slowly in Jon's direction. She saw his lips part and his breathing quicken slightly in surprise.

Though he appeared taken aback, Sansa noticed that his eyes appeared alight with tentative anticipation as she leaned toward him.

"I was scared, Jon," she breathed raptly, "of my own memories…and that I might not be brave enough," she continued, inching closer such that Jon's body was directly ahead, a reflection of her own. "but I'm not scared anymore."

Sansa's face was by that point mere inches from Jon's, such that their breaths spiralled upward as one in the chilled air.

 _"I trust you."_ She whispered softly into his ear, feeling him shudder at the proximity of her lips.

"You're sure?" Jon uttered back quickly, his resolve fading at Sansa's closeness.

Sansa kissed him in response, placing her hands tenderly on the sides of his face in an effort to draw him closer.

Jon seemed to awaken at her touch, kissing her back fervently.

In a heartbeat they had pressed their bodies together, and Jon had tentatively slid one side of Sansa's gown from her shoulder, as if testing her continued acceptance of the act.

Sansa briskly pulled her gown the rest of the way off her body by herself, nimbly escaping its folds and unquestioningly exposing herself entirely to Jon's gaze.

She paused only an instant before easing Jon's garments from his body as well. She wondered about his thoughts upon seeing her scars, but found that her worries evaporated as soon as she exposed his chest.

 _Of course,_ she realized strikingly, _he is just as scarred as I am._

With a gentle finger, Sansa traced the slender scars on Jon's torso that marked where his Night's Watch brothers had driven their daggers.

Jon regarded her tentatively as she did so, his chest heaving measuredly with shortened breaths. Sansa locked eyes with him, azure on obsidian, and she sensed that he was reflecting on their similarities just as she was.

In a wordless response, Jon pressed his lips to a lengthy, hooked scar on Sansa's collarbone, causing her to inhale sharply- first in surprise, then in unexpected pleasure.

He drew away alertly at her gasp, studying her reaction respectfully for a heartbeat before proceeding more slowly. He continued to gingerly press the silken flesh of his lips to several of the scars that adorned Sansa's chest and midsection; some were pale and lightly healed, others were faded and nearly undetectable.

Jon soon reached the freshest of Sansa's past lacerations- the well-defined hollow beside her hip bone where the assassin's knife had lodged itself only a fortnight ago. He kissed that site most gently of all, so lightly that Sansa shivered pleasantly as though tickled.

Sansa soon identified an unfamiliar, curious sensation stemming from Jon's tender actions. A warm sort of yearning from deep inside that she had never experienced properly before.

This, she supposed, was what it was _supposed_ to feel like to be with a man. She craved Jon's touch; she relished the feel of his powerful, corded muscles beneath her fingertips; she savoured the chance to run her hands through his splendid onyx hair, and in fact over every _other_ part of him as well.

* * *

There was no doubt within Winterfell that the Sansa and Jon's union had been consummated. Some had expressed doubts after the rather unwilling march on the part of the monarchs up to the lord's chambers, but the audible intonations from within the room through the depths of the night proved otherwise.

"Our King Crow is proving a right wolf in the furs if what I've ears to is correct." Tormund mused shamelessly around some after-midnight hour from within the emptied Great Hall. "One of my lads swore there was howling and barking from inside the chambers an hour past." He teased gruffly, taking a long swig from the deep tankard in his hands.

"It's important that our king and queen produce an heir." Ser Davos replied feebly through a sheepish smile. "Let them 'ave their fun."

Tormund bellowed drunkenly with laughter. "Not to worry, I won't be interruptin' anything. You southerners is the ones with the strange bedding customs."

To that Davos shrugged and raised his goblet in a salute of reluctant agreement.

* * *

Jon stirred later than usual the following morning. Sansa, in all her beauty, lay at his side, only partially covered by furs despite the low temperature.

He had woken up beside her more times than he could count, but never like this. It seemed nearly all night he had taken her for wife.

 _One of, if not the greatest night of my life_ …he admitted to himself sheepishly.

He had been terrified of being too rough or of frightening her, but Sansa had proved very receptive to his gentle advances.

 _Would that we could stay like this forever._ Jon mused woefully, his eyes following the graceful curve of her back.

With a start he realized that, near enough, they could. At least whenever the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness ruled the castle…

Jon watched Sansa pensively as the first rays of light traversed the narrow slits of the shuttered window. He smiled at her sleeping figure.

_I am hers, and she is mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I actually wrote this a long time ago and had it posted on fanfiction.net months ago.   
>  I completely forgot to put it up on here, I suppose, and now that I've been writing another (entirely different) fic on this site I was able to notice that this one was left incomplete. So here we have it- the concluding instalment of this lengthy tale. :)
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed reading, and thanks for sticking with the story to the end. Just as I hope Jon and Sansa will stick around until the end of season 8...
> 
> (Still mildly salty that he ended up with Daenerys :p)


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